For The Sake Of Revenge
by SleepEatRead
Summary: Life once again plays its move against Yasmeen, sending her spiraling down the rabbit hole (or sand hole in this case) from 2016 Norway to 866 divided Britain. The time where the Anglo-Saxon wars rage against the Vikings. Funnily enough, the entire war is orchestrated by the infamous Viking; Ivar the Boneless. It is survival of the fittest.
1. Chapter 1: Down the Sand Hole

**A/N: Just quickly, whenever there are authors notes, I advise that you read them. They clear up a lot of things. Thanks, enjoy!**

 _"They say science and religion don't mix, they also say that politics and religion don't mix. Yet it can be proven that more than half of the world conflicts up to date are due to religion mixing with anything. It is the age-old, power-hungry, radical politician tactic that tries to force their beliefs on people who do not wish to get involved._

 _Religion is a totally different branch of the tree of the world's equilibrium-"_

 _Is this an A-level essay piece?_ I wondered thoughtfully, staring blankly at my screen. Grade 10 Religion had to be my most controversial religion class so far. It was my favorite subject of the day, just because of the heated discussions that we got to participate in during class. I love arguing.

My mother says I enjoy it far too much for it to be healthy. I mean, no one ever got a heart attack from arguing. But there is no need to tell her that. Besides, this is religion class. While I don't enjoy the company of my classmates, I enjoy the class.

But I don't enjoy the writing aspect of it. Who does? Essays are basically opinionated pieces of bullshit that get graded for how well you can write and prove an argument. I never loose an argument. But something happens when I write essays and then that is where I loose the argument.

The world works in mysterious ways.

Now don't get me wrong I like _religion_. I am an active member of the Coptic-Orthodox Christian congregation. I fast, I dress modestly, I defend my religion, and so it goes.

 _ **Support your answer in three to five paragraphs.**_

 _This is bullshit_ , I thought venomously.

Now, unto Fate, just because I was reading about the three Fates from Greek Mythology.

Fate is a bunch of bull, and I have no other way to support that answer; unless you count how Fate made me a biological mistake (I wasn't really planned with my parents, they planned to stop at my only sibling). Sure my parents love me, but my mom seems to enjoy reminding me how I was never really planned, it got funnier as I grew older.

Just as my parents didn't really plan my existence, it seemed that God didn't nearly put in as much effort in the planning of my physical merits.

I have nice features, to say the least, standard dark Arabic features; dark hair, tan, olive-toned skin, dark almond-shaped eyes, and big lips. The only thing I actually liked about myself are my cheekbones. Apparently, they were a trend now, contouring and all that (although that was more of a Western thing.)

Sure my features are nice, but they fit together all wrong. The little things that only one notices about themselves. Pimple scars, a slightly off-center nose, and a big forehead (my ex-nun, drug-addict counselor referred to it as an elegant, high forehead). That is only the most flattering part of the many unfortunate features I seemed to have accumulated over the years. No need to scare anyone off by revealing all of it at once.

But I guess I should mention the inevitable now. I am not skinny. Call me chubby, or be mean and call me fat, but it is all good. That is what I get for being a really good cook. Mind you I wasn't all that fat. I mean, if wearing size 14 clothes is what you consider fat then fine.

It was getting darker just as it was getting colder, I noted dolefully. I still didn't even harvest the tomatoes in our back yard. Deciding I'd better get on with it before my parents come, I turned off my computer and grabbed a hand-woven basket from the corner, brushing out my worn, red khaleegy dress. Tomatoes and corn are expensive in the winter, so my parents grow them in the summer and store them during the winter.

It was smart but exhausting because I have to take care of it. Preferably before my parents find out that I didn't take care of it.

 _You live in this house, don't you?_ My mother's voice sounded in my head. I rolled my eyes. The number of times I heard that phrase is unbelievable. I am sure every child heard it at least once in their life as a guilt-trip to actually work around the house.

Stepping outside into our modest backyard (neatly trimmed rose bushes along the fence, bird fountain in the middle surrounded by yellow and red tulips, ceramic vases filled with white lilies and lavender, a sinewy apple tree next to our farm-so it continues...) I managed to weave through the maze of bushes to our little farm.

My foot suddenly sank into the mud. I looked down, surprise making me drop my basket. Generally speaking, water was precious and expensive in Europe. My parents didn't make it a habit of soaking the ground with it. So much that they exchanged the grass for stone pavement, skirting around the flowers and farm. I made sure to walk on pavement.

Instead of stone, it was a hole filled with dark, swamp-like mud. My eyes widened in shock. That was never there, to begin with.

It all happened so fast. One minute I was stuck, and the next, I was getting dragged down the hole at such an alarming speed, I didn't have time to scream.

My mouth and vision filled with sand, I suffocated.

I sat up straight, gulping in the cleanest oxygen I have ever smelled. My stomach was still spazzing, my heart was pounding and my mouth felt grainy still.

Unfortunately, the ground underneath me was not solid. I was in the rapid water, it's tentacles wrapping around me and dragging me beneath the surface. I was sinking, again.

This time, I really did scream. But my screams were muffled by a huge gulp of water. I began to choke. I heard a splash nearby and I felt a something grab onto my wrist and pull me up. Someone was dragging me away and soon I felt ground underneath on my feet. Several hands pulled my up again and soon I was on soft grass, coughing up my guts.

I was rolled over to my back and my vision was met by four men, aging with poorly kept beards, surrounding me.

"Ey, lass, wat'chu tink you're doin' 'ere, dressed like this? Where's yer 'uzband?" the man said, in a Scottish accent, so prominent, I had to strain to listen. _My husband,_ I thought with a start, I was fifteen.

I then took a moment to scan them. They were not dressed in the fashion that I expected them to be dressed in. They wore rags, farmer's rags in the Medieval ages.

"Where am I?" I asked groggily, coughing up again, turning away from him.

"Why" another man laughed "you's in Whitby o'coarse!" the man laughed incredulously.

"You ain't from around these parts, are ye, little girl—where's you from then?" another man demanded. Their faces all blended in together.

Well clearly I am not from here, I am as Egyptian as it got.

Whitby? Isn't that in England? It is a beautiful Seaside Town in Yorkshire, England. I went there once. But now, it certainly didn't look like a touristic seaside town. It was rugged, wild, and overgrown with forests and unkempt landscapes from what I could see.

"I'm from Egypt," I said, groggily sitting up, shivering as my body got wind of the cool climate.

"Egypt? Where's dat?" a man said, scratching his head thoughtfully, another man slapped him over his head.

"Egypt, the where the Israelis ran too."

"No you wanker, Egypt where the Israelis ran from," another argued.

"Yes, that Egypt," I said.

"You's a long way from home," the man observed, "now I know nothin' much about land an' all that but I know it's far."

I wasn't even in Norway anymore. I wanted to cry.

"Iz dat how yer women dress in Egypt?" another man asked, all four of them curiously looked on.

I looked down at my Khaleegy dress, it was wet, no trace of mud on it, still a vibrant red, the only popping color around here, where all else blended in together, even the people.

"For the most part," I said, struggling to my feet, but promptly fell back to my knees. My legs wouldn't support me.

"You talks very good Anglish," the man next to me observed, "shouldn't you be talking Egyptian now?"

"Arabic you mean?" I corrected, "I speak both, what year is this?"

Everybody looked at her, weirdly even.

"You must'a taken a mighty blow to your pretty little 'ead if you dinna remember."

"It's 866 the year of 'r Lord."

I really burst into tears this time.

"Dinna worries little lark," the old man said kindly as he led me away from the three other men, who decided I wasn't all that interesting. "Father Ulric at the Chapel will find a place for ye to stay"

I was too shocked to protest. I was in the medieval ages. I was at the epoch where they burned people for being witches, I was in the age where the church believed that water was impure, I was in the age where the Vikings attacked.

I was in the epoch where I would not survive, for sure.

I looked around, then noticing that there were not many young men, only old men, old women, and perhaps a few young women, and very few children, all turned to look at me in varying degrees of wonder, disgust, horror, and open hostility.

"Why do they look at me like that?" I asked wearily.

"They ar'na used to people who look 'nd dress like you," The man said and soon they reached a small church, it was extremely plain, with only a wooden cross to vouch for its status as a church.

"Father Ulric," the old man said humbly, bowing his head. I looked at the altar and saw a small man, dressed in brown robes, a white sash around his waist and the top of his head was entirely bald, and the rest of his dark hair surrounded him like a halo.

"Ah, Peter, have you come for confession?" the priest, Father Ulric said to the old man. Peter blushed and shook his head.

"No, father, I am 'ere for her. I 'ave found her on the Esk. She dinna know how she end up so."

"Ahh," Father Ulric nodded in understanding. He assessed me from head to toe, his eyes lingering on my hair.

"Where are you from Child?" Father Ulric asked demurely.

"Egypt, sir," I said.

"I heard it is warm there," Father Ulric said, he seemed pleasant enough.

"It is," I said, unsure what else to say.

"What is your name, Child?" he asks again, gesturing for her to sit down on one of the benches.

"Yasmeen, sir."

"I am no Ser, Yasmeen, I am a priest, you will address me as Father or Father Ulric, " he said shortly, I flushed in embarrassment."Yes, father," I said.

"Tell me; how you can speak our language, can you speak your language too? Arabic, is it not?"

"I speak my language Father Ulric, but my father also taught me other languages, he is a merchant see," I was lying in church so heavily, I could feel the sweat breaking out.

"What other languages do you know then?" Father Ulric asked pleasantly.

"Norwegian and a bit of Swedish," I said hesitantly, I felt a bit of discomfort pool in my stomach. The priest tensed.

"How did your father learn such barbaric languages?" he said, his voice lost a bit of its pleasantness.

"I am not sure, my father travels a lot, and he is very intelligent too," I said, I resisted the urge to shrug.

"Who is your God?" the priest certainly cut to the chase.

"My God is Jesus Christ."

Father Ulric turned to her, derision in his eyes.

"Don't lie, girl. I know you Arabs worship your false god, Allah, is it not?" he sneered. I was so shocked with his change in mannerisms that my eyes were watering up. I furiously shook my head.

"No, there are churches too, monasteries in the desert, we worship God, I promise you," I said, m voice sounded shrill, even to my ears.

"Do you read Latin?" Father Ulric asked.

"No father, I don't,"

"Good, then I am sure you will be able to read the Bible, is that correct?" Father Ulric asked testily. I stared at him, I just said I couldn't read Latin, was he deaf, or was he just plain stupid. Before I could think anymore about this, a sharp pain erupted in my cheek and I toppled over the floor. Father Ulric just slapped me.

"No, father."

"Tell me, are you familiar with the story of the prodigal son?" Father Ulric asked, looking annoyed.

"Yes, father."

"Tell me the story then."

I had spent so long in the church, enduring the Bible interrogation of the not-so-nice priest, which by the time nightfall had arrived; I was struggling to fight my weariness.

"You have not given me a reason yet to question your integrity. Now tell me, girl, have you bled yet?"

The question was so direct and blunt that the words struggled to form in my mouth.

"Y-yes father," I stuttered.

"How old are you, Yasmeen?"

"Fifteen, father."

"Are you a virgin, are you wed?"

"Yes, father. No I am not wed, father."

"Good, that will make placing you much easier. For now, you will stay in the chambers I will give you in the house of God. You will get rid of that dress and wear something more appropriate instead of that demonic color. Tomorrow, you will wake up for mass at dawn and after that, we will see what comes next"

"Yes sir—"

Suddenly, Father Ulric's hand came down on my face so hard; I was thrown off the bench.

"Insolent girl," Father Ulric hissed "I told you to call me father did I not?"

"Yes Father, forgive me, Father," I said, trying to hide my tears. I just wanted my mother and father. I forced myself to become meek.

"Go, now. Godiva will take you"

Godiva was the sternest woman I had ever seen. Her hair stuck tightly to her scalp and it collected at the base of her neck in a tight, neat widow's knot. She was wearing a black, unflattering dress and whatever sign of beauty in her youth was long diminished if it ever existed.

She quietly led me to a room. It was a small room, with only a small cot that would barely just fit me; some sheets were neatly folded on the trunk on the foot of the cot. There was barely enough room for me to walk. Next to the bed was a lampstand and a small candle. There were no mirrors and there was only a jug on a bowl. Like what they used to wash with, in the medieval times. I almost smacked myself silly; I was in the medieval times.

"Change into this," Godiva said, her voice clipped and harsh to my ears. She gave me folded brown cloth, piled on folded gray cloth, white string, and smaller, white cloths.

"Yes ma'am," I said.

"Why do you call me ma'am, I am not married. Call me Miss Godiva or simply Miss. Understood?" Godiva said, raking me with a disapproving stare.

"Yes, miss."

"Good."

She left me, closing the door quietly, but I did not hear her footsteps go away. I sighed and set the clothes on the bed. I took off my dress, neatly folding it on the pillow of my cot. The dress was brown and shapeless; the sleeves were long and bell-shaped. The material of the dress was woolen and scratchy. Underneath I wore what had to be underwear, but I suppose they would be called small clothes. Overtop the dress I had to wear a plain white pinafore. She had given me a gray cloak too. I wrapped the girdle around my waist and knocked on my door.

The door opened.

Godiva looked stern as ever.

"You are dressed. Good, I had hoped they would fit. These will be your night clothes. Now change into that and that will be it. Go to sleep. Do not light the candle. We don't have any others."

Godiva then walked away after shoving neatly folded gray cloth in my arms.

I wanted to roll my eyes.

I opened my trunk and neatly put my Khaleegy dress in there, the cloak, the dress, the girdle and the small clothes in there and I shut the trunk. I then put the wool nightgown on. It was thick, which was good. I could already feel a chill.


	2. Chapter 2: Into the Fire

If this was dawn, they certainly made sure of it. The bells were so loud...but no, something was not right.

As the bells continued to ring, screams began to be heard. I sat up quickly, looking about and taking off my nightgown, hurriedly putting my day clothes on and taking my Khaleegy dress. I shoved it in the inside pockets of my cloak.

The smell of smoke reached my nose.

I looked outside of my window and saw the source of distress. Men, several of them, at least a legion of them-armed with chain, leather, and steel and their beards long-charged in. Houses were burning and I could see a mass slaughter taking place.

I had to stuff my fist in my mouth to prevent from crying out in horror, tears blurred my vision and my blood pumped with fear.

If it's one thing I knew about Vikings was that they were the cleanest medieval Europeans ever recorded and that they had rounded shields. Along with many attributes such as cruelty and bloodlust, but that didn't matter right now.

These were Vikings. They had rounded shields. They were coming to raid Whitby. I had to leave.

I yanked the candle out of its holder and grabbed my nightgown stuffing my Khaleegy dress, some linen, a bar of soap I found next to the bowl and jug, mittens and socks, and the candle inside. I grabbed the leather shoes given to me and fled down the hall to the back window. Would I survive this jump? Possibly.

But no, I was not that lucky.

"You!" Godiva shrieked. I turned around and the amount of hatred in her eyes stunned me. I didn't even know this woman. I grabbed the nearest thing I could find, it was a candle holder. Godiva shrieked madly and charged at me.

"You thieving craven bitch!" Godiva roared. My hand came down on her head; it stunned the woman for a moment. The moment allowed me to punch her in the nose and push her back onto her bum.

I turned around and the idea of jumping off the window fled me. I ran down the back stairs but to my horror, my sight was met with my worst nightmare.

Vikings.

All of them were blonde to the root, all of their eyes hazel, green, and blue-like the colored gems. Their beards were surprisingly well groomed and their teeth were shockingly white as they snarled at me.

A loud command stopped an oncoming blow to the head.

The man who stopped them was not blond at all. His hair was the color of the burnt chestnut; he had an undercut, leaving the top of his head filled with hair and below completely bare. The top of his hair was in cornrows that met into one long braid that reached his shoulders. Tattoos filled the bare area of his scalp and his neck, disappearing below his clothing. He was significantly taller than everyone else, on his legs were metal braces tightly wrapped around his legs, which were muscular like the rest of his body. His shoulders were broad, his face was angular. But his eyes; they were so blue, that the whites of his eyes seemed to glow blue too. He was extremely handsome, and it was clear that he had some authority over the people.

"Don't touch this one," he said sharply, gesturing with his sword at me. His voice was like steel, sharp. But it was also like thunder, deep and rumbling; a very compatible combination.

"Why not? Want her all for yourself little cub?" one of the men sneered, he had a chipped tooth. The dark haired man was young, yes, but he already sported a beard, I would give him a solid eighteen years.

"If I do, what then?" the man challenged, moving his sword to point at the man rather threateningly. "It is my right to take her as a slave, I humbled her home."

"You fool, she is not saxon—"

"I can see that," the man said sharply, "that does not matter, she is mine, to get to her, you go through me. I am sure we do not want that to happen, yes Erik?"

"Yes Ivar," the man sneered, turning to me and looking me up and down as he licked his lips. I recoiled from him but was shortly stopped as the man named Ivar grabbed me by the hair tightly.

I yelled, hugging my sack tighter to my chest. Ivar bent down, pulling his nose sharply to my neck and inhaling.

"This one takes care of herself," he said approvingly. He heard grunts of approval and someone speaking in Danish, presumably to make a vulgar joke but I ignored them. I couldn't focus on them when someone such as that terrible, fallen angel loomed above me with glowing blue eyes.

"I hear that their faith tells them it is immoral to use water," another man said, snorting with wicked derision.

"She is not of their faith, not anymore," Ivar said sharply, his eyes never leaving my face.

He switched to English.

"Where are you from?" he asked in broken but good English.

"Egypt, sir," I hadn't realized I was trembling until the hand on my hair trailed underneath the neckline of my dress onto my collarbones.

"This one knows respect," He switched back to Norweigan, chuckling without humor, "All the more reason to keep her."

"Egypt did she say?" a new voice said, I tried to look around Ivar's body but I didn't get very far when he pulled me by my hair again.

"Then she must know of where Bjorn went!" another voice said, this one feminine.

"Let her know, what Bjorn does is his business, he knows what he is doing. For now, we move on," Ivar said sharply, "We have a king to slay and a father to avenge."

I had heard the tales of famous Vikings. Living in Norway, not knowing of at least one of them was nearly unheard of. The most popular were always Ivar the Boneless, Harald Harada, Leif Eriksson, Ragnar Lothbrok, and two more whose names I forgot. Many said that Ivar the Boneless was crippled. I would never have guessed so; perhaps the braces in his legs helped him stand up but whatever his condition was, he was the most graceful of the lot.

"This one comes with me," Ivar announced, seizing me by the waist and dragging me past the four men and the woman. One of the men greatly resembled Ivar but his eyes were gray instead. The female was blond and her eyes were surprisingly brown.

"Why so interested brother?" it was Erik who sneered. Ivar didn't look at him as he replied.

"Does it matter? You wouldn't know anyways, you are still a boy."

Erik flushed but the woman came to his rescue. "And you know?" she asked sharply.

Were they unaware that I understood their language and implications? I hope so; it would give me an advantage.

"Whether I do or do not, it does not matter, I will know again soon enough." I tried to struggle out of his grip but his hand came down on my face. The only thing keeping me from falling was the grip he had on my arms.

"Cease your struggles girl," Ivar hissed in English, his blue eyes glowing brighter than ever.

Something about his eyes made me heed his command. I don't know what it was but I could see how it made everyone listen to him, how it would command the attention of a room. It made me feel almost _compelled_ to try to please him which was terrifyingly strange.

He grabbed my poor excuse of a sac that I hugged to my chest.

"What is this?" he drawled in English, "the little bird was trying to escape her cage; well she was smarter than the rest."

"Please," I begged, thinking of my Khaleegy dress, the only thing I had from my home. He looked down at me, his face contemplative but still icy. He gave me a toothy smirk, and I noticed that his canines seemed really sharp.

Then I heard another shriek, this time, it was from Godiva. I whirled around and saw the woman standing at the top of the stairs, a crazed look in her eyes as she held a dagger. Not even the man who held me so threateningly made me feel so scared as with Godiva. The crazy woman flung her dagger at me, screaming the word _'whore'_.

I heard a ripping screech, and for a moment I wondered where that came from until I realized it was from me. I closed my eyes and pushed myself backward, but Ivar's arms held me steady and the dagger never came. Instead, _Ivar_ was holding it, just inches from my face.

He then flung it back at Godiva and it caught her straight in the chest. Godiva crumpled to the ground and I was too shocked to move. If I wasn't so shocked, I would have surely noted the grace and quickness of Ivar's movements.

"Burn this church down," Ivar commanded in English, dragging me away "Take all the gold and valuables."

My legs wouldn't move, I only saw these kind of things in the movies. It was further proof and a rougher awakening into the fact that I was no longer in 2016 Norway.

Ivar huffed and bent down, flinging me over his shoulder. That woke me up.

"Put me down!" I yelped in English, pounding on his back hoping to dissuade him but he only laughed and jousted me, smacking my behind soundly.

"Stop moving or I will beat your lovely ass again," he warned, and I could hear the humor beneath his serious threat. I was still smarting from his vulgar form of discipline, this wasn't _Fifty Shades of Barbaric Shit_.

I smacked his behind instead. He gave me two resounding slaps on my behind that had me yelping in pain.

"Do that again and it will be more than just your ass"

Was I not heavy for him? He didn't seem to be struggling yet. Perhaps he is stronger than I gave him credit for. I was getting dizzy now. The stench of burning wood and flesh reached my nose and I wrinkled it.

"Are you burning the bodies?" I asked, using his butt as leverage to pull myself up. He had an enviously firm butt.

"Yes, if we leave them to rot then they will spread disease. We cannot risk that."

"Are you planning to stay here?" I didn't want to stay here next to burning bodies.

"No," his answer was short.

"What—"

"Gods, woman, do you always ask so many questions?" Ivar smacked my behind again.

"Stop that," I yelped like a wounded puppy, "You are hurting me."

"Good, take that pain as a lesson and silence yourself," he growled.

It didn't take long before he was dumping me on the ground. Blood rushed from my head and I could already feel a migraine coming on.

"Get up and get on the horse," Ivar said, not offering to even help me up, the savage. I struggled to my feet when his hand came to the hilt of his sword. He then grabbed a bunch of rope from the satchel on the saddle on a great brown mare and grabbed my hands, tying them up tightly. Unnecessarily tight in my opinion but I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of seeing my pain and making one of those scathing, humiliating comments to me.

"How will I get on the horse now?" I asked testily and he glared at me. In one fluid movement, he grabbed me by the waist and threw me on the poor animal in the most unorthodox way.

"Sit on the horse properly, one leg on each side, this is not a frivolity," Ivar said sharply, slapping the side of my thigh. I hissed in pain and glared at him but complied. He then threw my white sack inside the satchel of his saddle.

"We move on," he loudly called in Norwegian and I heard a few more shouts as the clanging of steel and the neighing of horses got louder. He then got on the horse in front of me, grabbing my tied wrists and pulling them above his head.

Ivar dragged my hands down his impossibly broad shoulders; my wrists were straining with effort and he finally wiggled his hands out of my awkward embrace. My arms were now around his waist.

"Hold fast," he said coldly, craning his neck to look down at me. I glared at him, he rolled his eyes and the horse began moving.

Let me tell you something, being on a horse is not fun. Not like it looks on big screen. The insides of my thighs were chafing, my arms were straining, my shoulders were on fire and my back was in near-chronic pain. Ivar seemed unaffected, though. He wasn't even panting.

Let me tell you something else, horse riding is a strenuous activity and I can see now why it is classified as a sport. I looked to my side and saw Erik riding his face completely void of emotion and a helmet on his head, surprisingly, there were no horns like I saw in _Asterix and the Vikings_.

Suddenly, all my misconceptions about Vikings seemed silly, as though it was something I was supposed to know, living in Norway. I was silly, another attribute to add to my ever-growing list of faults. I almost laughed at my stupidity. How many times have I been taught about Vikings? I never paid much attention in history class, but I passed with a respectable mark. Now that I look back on it, I felt stupid. I memorized the facts, I never understood them.

At this point, my self-esteem was so low; I had to let out a few tears as secretly as possible to let out some fume.

I don't know how long we have been riding, but soon, it was too dark to ride and we barely managed to set up camp. Well, them, I didn't do anything, I just sat next to the horses and waited for Ivar to come and untie me from the tree.

My stomach grumbled loudly. Instinctively, my knees flew up to my chest and I leaned forward, hoping they were too far away to hear my pathetic stomach.

I hate that taco now. Why did I have to be such a sneak? Well, no use crying over spilled milk now, it is too late for even crying over it.

It seemed like forever when Ivar came over, a bowl of something hot and steamy in his big hands. He squatted in front of me and I watched him wearily. Something that smelled like roasted meat wafted into my nose and my stomach grumbled loudly, I blushed with shame. If he noticed, he didn't say anything.

"Open up" he commanded, I opened my mouth and to my horror he hand-fed me. But it was the most delicious, if not the blandest thing I have ever tasted. Any other time, something like this would be tasteless and for all the love I had for food, unsalvageable.

I haven't eaten in two days, so that must be what finally ruined my taste buds. The morsel clearly had some form of crispiness and it gave it a better taste. I almost moaned in pleasure. Let me tell you, the experience of eating food after two days was borderline orgasmic.

He waited for me to carefully swallow, waiting a second before feeding me the next morsel, I nearly burst with impatience. Why was he so slow in feeding me?

"I can feed myself."

"I never said you can't," he said patiently.

"Why can't I feed myself then?"

"Because you will gobble it all and then you won't be filled. If I feed you slowly, you won't be so hungry," Ivar explained with a long-suffering sigh, pulling a morsel from the plate and into my ready mouth.

I could see his reasoning, he may be a savage, but he certainly wasn't stupid. When I chewed the morsel and swallowed it, I opened my mouth; "thank you"

It won't hurt to be nice to my captors; it might make my time with them easier. I already counted myself lucky that Ivar decided he wanted me. Despite slavery being a genuinely horrible thing, it was a sort of insurance for someone like me. Someone who didn't know anything and it was the best I could ever hope to get so soon in a world like , I couldn't bear to think of what would have happened to me.

Ivar grunted and fed me the last of the morsels before taking out a water skin from his bag and commanding me; "tilt your head, open your mouth"

I did as I was big and the cool refreshing water ran down my parched throat, I swallowed the water eagerly, careful not to choke on the precious water.

"Sleep" Ivar commanded.

I was all too glad to comply.

When I woke up the next day, there was a lot of noise. Gosh, that must have been the stupidest thing I have ever narrated in my head, but I was groggy from sleep.

The men (and women) were breaking camp and Ivar walked up to me, surprisingly, his braces didn't seem to bother him.

"Good, you are awake. Can you sew?" he asked, tossing me an apple.

I wanted to shake my head and tell him I knew nothing but that would be a lie, and I needed to make myself useful. If I wasn't useful in the most important skills then I am a literal waste of space. He would either rape me or kill me and I really enjoyed living my life, despite how much I complained.

"Only a little," I admitted, "Nothing too complicated."

"Good, sew this together for me, it will be a while before we start moving,"

He had given me a blue linen shirt that was cut at the chest. He threw a bag of sewing supplies to me. Thankfully, there were fastening pins. Otherwise, I would have been hopeless. He then untied the ropes from my wrists. To my utter dismay, he tied my waist to the tree.

"I won't escape," I said testily, but honestly. _Where could I go?_

Ivar didn't say anything, he just looked at me, and then he yanked on the rope, hard. I yelped.

"Stop it" I griped. Ivar only smirked at me.

Sewing wasn't hard; it was the pricking of fingers that made my teeth grate with annoyance and mild pain. The end result wasn't as horrible as I expected, in fact, if it wasn't for the different color strings, it wouldn't have been so prominent.

I could be proud of something at least.

"Done?" it was not Ivar, but it was the woman at the church. I could only stare at her, awestruck by the beauty I was silly to have never noticed before. It took me a while before I realised she was speaking English. How stupid I must have appeared to her, gaping like a fish.

Thankfully, she was patient with me.

"Yes," I stuttered. She snatched the shirt from my hands, which were _not_ trembling.

"You did better than I expected," she mused, "Perhaps you are not too useless. We begin moving now. Ivar will be here shortly to get you."

She threw the shirt back at me. I was so shocked by her mannerisms. I certainly didn't expect her to be kind to me. But I felt there should be some sort of womanly kinship. Apparently, that was too much to ask for and I would not blame her. She was a badass-shield maiden. I am like a lump of potato that is practically inedible, totally different things. I just prayed to God she wasn't an admirer of Ivar, otherwise, I would be as good as shesh-kebab.

"Alof" Ivar's steel-on-stone voice rang sharply. Alof didn't even look fazed as she turned to Ivar with a smirk, very similar to Ivar's.

"Ivar, you should take better care of your precious pets," Alof taunted. Ivar didn't take his eyes of her. He didn't say anything either, just stared her down with his glowing blue eyes until even Alof shifted with discomfort.

"Leave," he hissed. Alof didn't miss a beat as she moved. Ivar didn't take his eyes of her until she was a considerable distance away.

He turned to me and I resisted the urge to squirm. He walked up to me—well he more like stalked, with an attractive, manly wiggle to his hips that I never noticed before.

He bent down and snatched the shirt away from me

"Good enough," he grunted. He straightened up and to my mortification (and secret awe) he yanked the shirt he was wearing off. It took all I had to not drop my jaw or worse, drool.

He was sculpted like Michelangelo's David statue, which was infinitly more attractive than those American models my friends obsessed over. His torso was like an upside-down Dorito (funny, I always think about food)—and those arms— _ohh_. Tribal tattoos, thick and black, covered the entire length of his arms, neck, shoulders, and chest, with a single body of a snake running down his obliques and disappearing past his navel. It really drew one's eye. I could see smaller tattoos on his naval too that disappeared below his belt line. I imagine there was more at his back.

 _Stupid_ —I mentally screamed at myself, he was my captor; I wasn't supposed to find him attractive. But oh—it was inevitable. It seemed my stare was fuelling his arrogance. He caught me at it, I wanted to groan and smack my head but I held myself. I had to admit though; the tattoos were a bit of a turn off. I never appreciated a man with ink. I always imagine they were callous. I know I was not wrong on that count. At least for this person specifically.

"Like what you see?" he teased, shrugging the newly sewn shirt back on and folding his old shirt carefully. Seeing him do such a menial chore made him all the more attractive.

I could only huff and look away, a blush coming over my face. Thankfully, he didn't open up that conversation. He squatted down again and untied my waist and much to my displeasure, re-tied it around my wrists. I held my tongue this time, unable to even look at the man.

"Have you bled yet?" he asked casually, as though it was a question about the weather; I could only stare at him in open-mouthed shock.

"Well, have you?" his eyebrow quirked up. I slowly nodded my head, unable to form the words to grace his question with an answer. I wasn't much into old figure of speech but I could understand when someone asked about my monthly cycle. That priest from the church had no problem about it either.

"How old are you, did you say? You look like a sixteen-year-old to me," Ivar asked, pulling out a dagger from his belt and to my utter disenchantment, picked his perfect teeth with them. What was there to pick anyways?

"Fifteen," I begrudgingly huffed, slightly impressed at his estimation. He stopped picking at his teeth and looked down at me, surprise evident on his features.

"Should you not be popping your third child by now? I know the Saxons like to start early," He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"I am not Saxon," I countered sharply, "I am not married and I do not appreciate you speaking to me this way."

That was my biggest mistake; it was the worst thing to say to a Viking who held authority. I could see immediate change in his expression. He even had a dagger in his hand, _goddammit_.

 _Perhaps you should have been more tactful_ , that snide, shit-eating voice whispered gleefully.

His blue eyes froze over and shone, his mouth twisted into a wry smile, as though he expected me to slip up like this, but his eyebrows pulled together and he was the definition of threatening. In one swift move, his dagger came down right beside my head; I felt a sharp pain in my ear.

An unearthly silence descended over my mind and then, a loud, ringing sound and hot white pain. I tried to move my head but the pain intensified by a ten-fold. A ripping sound made me wince and I only realized it was me until Ivar's stuffed a piece of cloth in my mouth.

"Don't move unless you want to rip your ear out," he warned, his face moving impossibly close to mine, our lips were almost touching and tears were streaming down my face. I couldn't even scream. I was speechless with fear and pain.

"You will learn to respect me, if you do not like how I treat you, you deal with it. If I wish to do something you do not want, you do it. If ever you speak to me so, it will be more than your ear," he snarled so softly, I had to strain to hear over my haze of pain.

"Am I clear?" he asked softly, his mouth ghosting over my lips, my nose and my eyes, which were tightly shut. He pulled the cloth from my mouth and I held in my pathetic sobs.

He shook the dagger gently and the pain that came along with it almost made me faint.

"Oh Gosh, yes, oh my—please, I promise, I am so-so-so-sorry" I stuttered over my tears, my hands flying to grip the chest of his tunic, clutching so hard, my fingers were starting to hurt. I wanted to push him away but my muscles wouldn't budge. Perhaps it was for the better, I would think, later, that I didn't push him away.

I could feel warm liquid trail down the lobe of my ear, blood. I felt Ivar breathe gently against my lips and in one swift motion, he pulled out the dagger.

"Don't scream," he hissed. It was all I had to not scream. My body convulsed forward and my face was met with his hard chest. I tried to muffle my screams and sobs into his shirt. The pain and the relief was so intense, I felt light headed.

"Shh..." he cooed me softly. How could he be so callous one moment and the so tender the next? The confusion set my emotion spiralling down and I had to muffle another sob in his shirt. My pain tolerance was so low at the moment.

Ivar softly stroked my hair; his mouth went over my inured hear. His hot mouth came down on it and he gently sucked. The warmth of his mouth clashed horribly against my injured ear and I cried even more. I couldn't even bring it in me to be disgusted by this.

"Hush yourself now," his tone took on a hard edge but it still didn't lose its softness. "Am I clear on that note?"

He nudged my face with his chest gently. I nodded my head vigorously, unable to form proper words.

"I need you to speak," he said, his hand burying itself in my hair, tugging softly.

"Yes," I gasped.

"Good," he said. To my utter surprise, he picked me up, cradling me like a baby, and walked over to his horse, setting me on it. He climbed in front of me and again, wiggled my arms around him. Tears were still streaming down my face; I had to bury my face in his back. I angled myself so that my injured ear was exposed to the cool wind.

I closed my eyes.


	3. Chapter 3: Whiplash

Pain is what woke me up, not just in my back, thighs, or shoulders, but my ear. My ear cartilage felt heavy and inflamed. I wanted to tell Ivar, in apprehension of infection, but it was fear and pride that kept me quiet. How could I ask my tormenter to heal my wounds? It didn't make sense; it was as ironic as it sounded.

I would just have to suffer through it.

"There is a village three miles from here," I heard a voice say. The voice was too loud. I buried my face deeper into Ivar's back.

"Good, a mile from the village, we dismount our horses and raid," Ivar called out, his back vibrating as he spoke. I wanted to moan with discomfort, but I held myself. I didn't want another ear injured.

It seemed forever before they crossed three miles. Ivar untied my hands from about his waist and climbed off, his hands coming around my waist and with considerable gentleness, lifted me off the horse. He grabbed my arm and led me and his horse to the nearest tree.

"Sit," he commanded and I ungracefully slumped down as he wrapped the rope around my waist and wrists, then tying his horse to the tree.

"I won't be long," he said.

 _As if that was supposed to comfort me_ , I mentally scoffed. I felt Ivar grab my chin, forcing me to look at him.

It was all I could do to not cry again.

"Now listen here," he said softly "I will be back and then you can do your business."

Speaking of business, I really needed to pee. How long can I hold it in for? Just as I opened my mouth to tell him so, he turned and walked away with the rest of his group. All of them stealthily disappeared into the forest, in plain daylight. I looked about; it was just me, the provisions, and the horses.

I selfishly wished that one of the other men decide that they wanted another girl so that I may have some company. But I wouldn't wish my circumstances upon anyone. It was a mistake now, for me to be grateful that Ivar decided to like me. I was still smarting and the pain in my ear didn't seem to have lessened.

Twenty-five minutes into the Vikings' absence, I heard faint bells and even fainter screams, then, after a while, all else fell silent.

I must have been sitting in maddening loneliness for what felt like forever, but in reality, it must have been three hours. They had come back then. They had new provisions, two carts of gold, food, and fresh provisions, and a third cart of tree people; one an old man and two children, both were bloody faced, young, and with wide, glassy eyes.

My eyes unwillingly sought out Ivar, who mingled for a bit with a few of his comrades. He then turned to me and sauntered over. He squatted down; his breaths were coming hard, probably fro the adrenaline that was fading. His hand sought out my injured ear.

"I have brought a healer for you," he said, but he didn't seem remorseful for his actions. It was a start.

"You spared the children," I noted.

"They were the only children around."

"You didn't spare the children from the last village."

"There wasn't any," Ivar shrugged. I could have sworn I have seen children.

"Why are there not many children?" I asked. The raid must have been successful because Ivar seemed to be pretty indulgent with my questions.

"All the men are preparing for war. They do not stay in the villages. They go for the capital; that is where they will be."

"But then you will need more men," I pointed out.

"We will meet our reinforcements there," he assured me.

"What if you don't—" I caught myself, sucking in a harsh breath, I didn't want to say anything that would offend him. I stared at him wide-eyed as his lips quirked upwards.

"If we don't meet them, then we will all go to Valhalla," he shrugged.

I didn't say anything else.

Ivar stood up and walked towards the human cargo wagon, and harshly pulled out the old man, who stumbled along as Ivar dragged him. I mourned such a sight.

"See to her," Ivar commanded, the old man cowered as he fell on trembling hands and feet and crawled towards me. He seemed to be searching for my ailment.

Ivar grabbed my chin over the man and twisted my head.

"Her ear," he spoke harshly and the old man whimpered.

"We will need some boiled water and clean that," the man said, visibly trembling.

Ivar shouted a brief command that I didn't catch in the general direction of what looked like a young squire.

"What else?"

"We will have to put it on once every few hours to help clean it. It shouldn't take too long to heal," the man trembled.

"Good," Ivar said, picking the man up by his arm and I forced myself to hold my tongue as he dragged him back to the wagon with the two children.

Ivar walked back to me and squatted down again.

"Why can't you be gentle?" I squeaked when Ivar pushed the old man. He whirled towards me and I realized the error of my words, and hurried to amend. "He is old, he isn't as strong as you, please be gentle,"

A little flattery won't do anyone harm.

"What is your name?" he asked suddenly.

"Yasmeen," I answered with some confusion.

"Yasmeen," he repeated, leaning forward, his lips almost touching mine and it was all it took to not recoil from him. "My tender-hearted little bird; I will be gentle as you ask, what is there to loose?"

I don't know how to answer that, it was probably theoretical so I didn't answer him.

"Thank you," I added, closing the distance between our lips, giving him an inexperienced kiss of gratitude. I felt him chuckle under my lips. I leaned back. What is he laughing about? He could at least be a bit more gracious, _there goes my first kiss_.

"That is quite the gratitude there," he teased, his lips brushing my hair before he untied my waist.

"Come, you must be full to the brim with shit," Ivar certainly has a charming way with words.

The thought of my stuffed bladder hit me and I had to squeeze my thighs getting up so as to not spill over myself. How he knew I don't know, but I was grateful, underneath all the embarrassment.

He walked me over a considerable distance from the camp.

"Do your business woman," he said "Don't misuse the privacy I allow you and run away. I will hunt you down and I promise you it will not be pleasant."

 _Well if it wasn't a threat, I wouldn't know what it was_ , I thought sarcastically.

He turned and walked a few trees away, unbuckling his belt. I quickly dug up a hole and squatted down, lifting my skirts. I only prayed it didn't dribble down my legs.

Nasty business aside, I was finished in a trice; I began shoving the dirt back over the leaves and unmentionables with my foot. After I had cleaned myself and set myself right, I put my under-small-clothes back on and walked over to Ivar who was patiently waiting a respectable distance away.

I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around.

"You are done, good. There are hot springs nearby, we will bathe there." He shoved my little make-shift sack in my arms. I had forgotten he still had that.

He led me through a maze of trees over to the pools. There were three pools, the larger of the two occupied by a great horde of men and the smallest on was occupied by only a handful of women and the two children from the raid.

"You will go with the women"

"I strip naked here?" I asked, horrified. Ivar looked down at me and smirked.

"Would you rather your clothes are wet?" he asked.

I huffed but nodded. I walked straight to the pool and hid behind a tree. I stripped out of my clothes and neatly folded them, stuffing them inside the sack as I took out the linen sheets and the bar of soap. I wrapped the sheet around my body and my soap bravely clutched in my hand. I walked over to the women's side of the clearing, to the pool, and as I got in, I took off the sheet.

The warm water was so inviting that when I sat down, I moaned with delight. I looked at the two children who huddled themselves away from the rest. I waddled over to them, my bar of soap in hand.

"Hello" I greeted them, suddenly feeling shy. "Would you like to share?" I offered them my soap and the youngest who must have been three shyly looked at me, and he smiled, nodding. I looked to the older one, who was five, the girl nodded at me too. I let them scrub up first, occasionally helping them while I scrubbed myself with my hands.

Soon, all three of us were squeaky clean. I helped them get out, wrapping them along with myself in my sizable linen sheet. With their clothes in hand, I led them to the forest and helped them dry up and get dressed.

I dried myself up too and just as I was putting my small clothes on I felt a hand going to my backside pinching me sharply. I yelped, my hand raised ready to strike, and I did.

" _Jaevel_ -what is wrong with you woman?" Ivar hissed, holding my fist with one hand, squeezing with terrifying strength.

"Sorry!" I squeaked, trying to yank my hand away from the awful pain. I felt my bones would pop if he squeezed any harder. Ivar studied me for a second with his unnervingly blue gaze before he threw down my hand, almost dislocating my shoulder.

"Don't hit me again," he finally said but I imagined there were more unspoken words, threats.

"Sorry," I repeated dumbly. Ivar glanced down and smirked. I was naked.

The embarrassment that heated my cheeks was almost as painful as the injury on my ear. I suppressed an indignant shriek and yanked the linen towards my chest, trying to maintain my modesty while literally folding into myself.

"What a strange body you have," Ivar mused, as though I was a bug he was experimenting on.

"Look away," I snapped. He looked up at me and rolled his eyes.

"Your body is not that enticing," Ivar rolled his eyes. His dilated pupils.

"Well then that means you don't have to keep looking at it,"

"For such a young woman, you are strangely voluptuous, is that common where you are from?"

"I don't know, I never bothered to look," I hissed, my back cramping from my awkward position. Still, the man wouldn't yield.

In an instant his hand was at my linen and he ripped the sheet from me, I cried indignantly and squatted to the ground, glaring up at him helplessly. He had a knife attached to his belt. I really valued my life.

"Your feet," he observed mildly, squatting down next to me and grabbing an ankle, yanking it towards him with alarming force, making me topple on my bum. It gave me an opportunity to grab the linen sheet and cover my body.

"What are you doing?" I hissed frantically, trying to yank my foot back when he tugged on my big toe.

"What a strange body you have," Ivar finally said got up w3ith the gracefulness of a cat. He looked down at me from his almost godly height.

"Get dressed,"

"Sit down," Ivar grouched as he led me away to the large bonfire. It was particularly chilly that night. The men circled around, their laughter loud, lively and raucous. The women joined in too. All of them were holding horns of ale and bowls of food.

Ivar was handed a bowl. He sat me down in front of the bench on the soggy ground and I had to grit my teeth as the cold seeped in through my clothes.

Ivar certainly took his time eating, I couldn't see him but I knew he was eating. Every once in a while his hand would come out and pet my hair. My inner feminist was fuming, but I knew that this was one of the moments where it was unwise to show them what it meant to be a woman. I was in the dawn of man, where women were cattle to be herded and shipped, where there were barely any rights. I barely counted as a human at the moment, I was a slave. I was aware that I was treated better than most slaves with the Vikings. Perhaps they had a moral code with their Norse Gods that I was not aware of.

My strange encounter with Ivar left me shook. Has he really never seen a woman like me before? Sure there are women around camp but everyone is fit, even the priest. It is rare to see heavy people walking around. Everyone was robust, no one was truly unfit. Maybe bigger and heavier, but clearly built to handle labour. I was soft and marshmallow-y in comparison. Maybe he never saw someone like that.

What was with him and my feet anyways? I couldn't understand it, when I looked at other women's feet around camp, they seemed perfectly normal. I didn't think my feet were the strangest thing about me. I could understand my breasts been a more controversial topic than my feet. Maybe Ivar notices the things that people wouldn't usually notice. I wouldn't put it past Ivar. I didn't get many opportunities to see how his mind works but it wasn't hard to gather the general observations.

"Here," Ivar said. I wanted to open my mouth and accept the food but I didn't want to presume. I knew he liked to poke fun. He might never do it openly but he was always mocking me. I just know it, from the way the dimples on his face appear without him smiling, to the way his eyebrows raise with challenge whenever I say something. Anything.

Something hot was put against my injured ear. I squeaked in shock.

"What?" I began, trying to move away but his hand held my head in place.

"Stupid girl, I am helping you," Ivar said dryly, dabbing my injury soundly. He began stroking my curls.

"I confess, I have never seen hair as... villous as yours. I have known curls, but now they seem like waves compared to yours," he commented casually, his hand never lifting from my head.

If he would just stop commenting on my physical appearance, that would be dandy. I didn't know what to say so I didn't say anything.

"Should you not be speaking with your men?" I finally settled on, out loud. His hand froze.

"What do you mean?" he asked casually, I had no choice but to answer.

"I only meant that it is not good to isolate yourself from your comrades-" Ivar cut me off, resuming the stroking motions of his hands.

"They are not comrades; we do not have those terms. They are my brothers-in-arms. I do not isolate myself from them. I have been with them for so long, I get bored easily. Now shut up and eat," Ivar shoved something against my lips. I opened my mouth and I almost choked at the force of his hand.

"Eat," he said sharply, removing his hand from my hair.

I obediently chewed; trying to ignore the bubbling annoyance that I dearly hoped was not rage. When I am angry, I get impulsive. That is the one thing I did not need right now. My ear still hurt from my last 'lesson'.

It was amazing how quickly the raucous died down. Soon, everyone was on their sleeping mats and Ivar was tying my wrists together.

"I won't sleep at the tree today?" I asked hopefully, wiggling my discomfited wrists.

"No," Ivar said, "It is too cold"

He wasn't wrong, already the were flurries falling.

I appreciated that he answered my questions, even if he was not obliged to do so. His answers were enough to sate my curiosity, his brevity speaking louder than words.

He left me for a moment, presumably to go to his horse. Soon he came back with a roll under his arm and a quilt in the other. He unrolled the sleeping bag.

"Come," he called sharply. I stumbled to my feet and walked over to him, "Get in."

It was a struggle with tied wrists but I managed.

Ivar slipped in shortly, with all his disgusting grace and elegance, despite his leg braces, which didn't seem to hinder any progress.

I shifted to get comfortable; trying to pull my dress down, it was bundled underneath me.

"Are there laws?" I asked him, my voice hushed "Regarding the treatment of slaves?" I was quick to elaborate when he was silent.

Ivar was quiet for a moment "I suppose. Only to keep you fed and clothed, and relatively healthy is all. For a slave to die within the servitude of its master shows incompetency on the master's part."

 _That is why he can be so kind_ , I thought with newfound understanding. It was not from the goodness of his heart.

"Now sleep," Ivar commanded and I shifted. I felt a bruising grip on my arm.

"Ai" I squeaked, this man did not know the extent of his strength, I swear.

"Stop moving, sleep."

"My dress is uncomfortable," I whimpered, trying to wiggle out of his grip. He let go and I felt his hand yank down at my dress, I swear I heard a rip. I have to admit, it did the job.

"Good?" he growled low in my ear.

"Yes, thank you."

"Good, now sleep or it will be the tree, wench."

I gathered enough about him to know his threats were not empty. I obeyed.


	4. Chapter 4: Laws and Moral Codes

When I woke up the next morning, I felt something hard underneath my head that admittedly provided comfortable leverage. My body felt overly heated and my face felt unnecessarily cold.

I hated the outdoors.

I wiggled, trying to move away from the source of scorching heat.

I felt a hand come down forcefully on my arm.

"Stop moving," Ivar growled, "Or I swear to you I will take you right there and fuck my morning wood away. Like the animal that you think I am."

The fact that he guessed my thoughts didn't surprise me as I thought it would. There was no use denying it.

"It's too hot though," I complained, strangely not concerned about his hopefully idle threat.

"It's better that way, turn around, face me," Ivar commanded softly. I sucked in a deep breath of cool air, trying to ease my morning breath. I turned around and waited for his next move.

Surprisingly, I felt him pull me closer, my face was squashed against his warm chest.

"Are we not supposed to be getting up?"

"In an hour or so, we will be moving; we pack up in fifteen minutes if we are being quick."

I shrugged and buried my face in his chest, the warmth making me sigh.

"Alof brought you clothes from the last village. You cannot keep wearing the same thing. You will stink."

"Alof?" I asked, surprised "She doesn't like me."

I felt Ivar sigh, "I had hoped you did not notice, but you are right, she does not. It was under my orders. If I will share a matt with you, I would prefer you did not stink."

I rolled my eyes. His way with words never failed to horrify me, amuse me, and repulse me at the same time.

Only a few minutes later, he ordered me to get off the matt. He sat up beside the mat and folded the quilt that covered us. My wrists were chaffing from the rope.

"Go to Alof, take what is yours and do not linger, come back to me then. Do not think of escaping. You have five minutes. Go."

I hurried, weaving through the groggily rising men, looking for the women, hoping to find Alof there. Thankfully, it was fairly simple to spot her.

How do I address this to her? She will probably get offended if I breathe in her direction.

"Yes?" hissed Alof, hostility in her voice as she noticed my awkward, uninspiring presence.

"Um, Ivar told me to ask you for clothes"

"So you call him Ivar now, yes?" Alof sneered, getting up on her feet as gracefully as a panther. I gulped.

"He did not tell me to call him otherwise," I said, resisting the urge to shrug as I cowered under her frosty gaze. Something about her made my insides freeze.

"He did not tell you his name either, how do you know?" Alof hissed, her face entirely too close to mine.

"I heard you say it when you first took me, I heard it around a few times," I said, trying to make it seem as ignorant as possible.

"You are not as stupid as you look then," Alof scoffed, sneering at me. She shoved a sack in my arms that I didn't notice before. The force of her shove sent me stumbling back.

I was fuming on the inside, but I knew it was safer to turn around and walk away. I did not compare to her in anything.

"Thank you," I said, as meekly as I could manage with my mounting rage.

I turned around and started to walk away but I felt a hand on my shoulder. I didn't dare turn around.

I felt cool breath brush through my hair, Alof whispered in my ear;

"You refer to him as 'Master'; he is not your equal, do you understand?"

When I didn't answer, she gripped my hair.

"Answer me you dumb girl" Alof hissed.

"I understand" I hissed, resisting the urge to shrug out of her grip.

"Good" I felt her loosen on me "get out of my sight before I run your cunt through with my sword."

I swear I gave a new definition to jogging.

When I found Ivar, he was sitting on a log, with an odd-looking knife in his hands, I then realized it looked like a barber's knife. It was the primitive version of one. Ivar must have noticed me looking because he looked up at me and smirked.

"Yasmeen," Ivar said and I was surprised he remembered my name "come here."

Even while he was sitting, he managed to be only centimeters shorter, perhaps the make-shift bench was bigger than I initially thought, but I knew enough to know that Ivar barely looked up at anyone in the camp.

"What is that?" I nodded to his knife. I just wanted to be sure.

"Change of plans, we don't leave today. Come here"

How much closer could I get? I stepped only a little bit closer.

"You will shave my head," he said, as though he expected me to comply without a few questions.

"Wha—I don't have-I don't know how—"I stuttered; I only kept quiet when he raised a challenging brow.

"You can learn, give me your arm," Ivar said. I gave him both my arms, still tied at the wrist. He undid the rope. I only let one arm fall down, the other he held. He yanked up my sleeve.

"Like this," he said, taking the knife, I squirmed and mewled with panic.

"Silence," he hissed, his glowing blue eyes shooting to mine and I immediately fell silent, watching him with wide, apprehensive eyes. He took the knife and set it on my skin; I can already tell it was sharp. He dragged it down the length of my arm smoothly.

"Feel that, like this. If you cut me or think to skewer me I will give you to my men and they will have their way with you, understood?" he hissed. I gulped and nodded. That was the last thing on my mind. My sense of self-preservation did not allow me to entertain such thoughts.

The perks of understanding their language is that I get to hear conversations. They speak around me as if they think I am ignorant of their tongue. Sure it was a little different from modern Norweigan or Swedish, but I still understood it.

I know they have hounds and trackers, I saw a few of the hounds. None of them looked friendly. Their trackers were wiry men with heavy facial paint and unpleasant faces. They didn't talk much. There was only a handful of them and I knew they were good at what they did. They always hunted lead the hunt for food for the camp. I didn't want to think what will happen to me if I decide to become stupid and escape.

"All of it?" I asked when he handed me the knife.

He gave me the most comically unimpressed look I have ever seen grace someone's face. It made me feel as stupid as I apparently look.

"No, only the already shaved part," he sighed when he realized I was not joking. A part of me wondered if he was only indulging in my many, stupid questions because he thought I was simple. Maybe I should let him think that. I would understand this world easier if I did.

I stepped forward between his open legs and pulled his head to my sternum. Shaving his undercut again wasn't as hard as I expected. I tried to get as little hair as possible on his back and neck. But the hair and scalp were already dry so I know it was not as easy as it should have been. But the knife was sharp. I rubbed the excess hair on my bare forearm. I could see the tattoos on his scalp a lot clearer. They were dark black, thick, and tribal. I bet they extended all over his scalp. I could see they went further down his shirt. I couldn't help it.

"Your ink," I began, I imagine he didn't know the word tattoo, "Does it cover your entire body?"

I felt his hands come up and gripped my waist. So far, he hasn't touched me once. Why now? His hands slid up and down.

"No," he said a note of exasperation in his voice. "Only my arms and chest, back-do you want to know where else? Not that it is any of your business. That must be the stupidest question you have ever asked. Did you not see them already?"

"I was just curious, besides, I thought maybe there was more than what I saw" I defended. "Does everyone have it?"

His hands went around to my back gripping my backside. I yanked the knife away from his scalp, holding in my indignant squeak.

"Why do you touch me?" I hissed, turning to face him, giving him my best glare.

"Because I can," he said, shoving his face close to mine, his eyes bluer than ever, the whites of them glowing. "And because you ask too many stupid questions. Now hurry up wench, I want to eat."

Two resounding smacks came down on both of my butt cheeks, this down I didn't hold my yelp in.

"Will you still answer my question then?" I tried again, it was risky but I could do it. I resumed cleaning up around, careful to try and not cut any of the long hairs.

"No, only warriors get to have it because they earned it."

"Not everyone here is a warrior then," I noted. I felt him squeeze my backside. Maybe if I let him touch a little bit, he will answer my questions. So long as it doesn't extend to anything else other than incessant groping.

"No, but they are good fighters," It was a low warning. I knew that was the end of that topic.

Maybe I pushed my luck today; I had many questions regarding my status as a slave. But I feel if I ask it will extend past a bit of groping, I will just have to catch him in a good mood.

"Where are the children then, and the old man?" I tried a different, completely innocent question.

"Why?" he taunted "Did you miss them?" He didn't answer my question, but I knew they were safe.

I had already finished; I wiped the last of his hairs of my forearm, a small mountain of them had already accumulated.

His hands reached behind and rubbed all over his scalp.

"You did well for a beginner" he noted. I tried to stop myself from blushing with pleasure. That is the second complement in a handful of days that I received from him regarding my skills, not counting the other three regarding my appearance.

Gosh, why do I even keep track? That is such a stupid thing to do...

"Thank you—what do I call you?" I asked. I couldn't help myself; I had to hear it from him, I didn't want to take it from Alof. I could trust her as far as I could spit.

Ivar watched me for a long, uncomfortable minute.

"Just Ivar will do," he finally said, getting up off the log, "Go change now, and wash your underclothes if you can. Hang them at the wagons."

I was all too glad to comply.

Changing wasn't hard, washing my small clothes wasn't hard, but doing it in my full naked lowliness made me want to shift with discomfort. The other women around did it naked. But I couldn't stand for it. The issue of nudity was non-existent, it seemed, to them.

They were the most oxymoronic people I knew. They loved their cleanliness yet they relished in dirty bloodshed. They were unashamed of their nakedness, yet they dressed modestly. They were skilled, yet they saw fit to make their slaves do what they can do.

Ok, the last one was slightly unreasonable. I was a slave, I was supposed to do that. That was the basic definition of slave, I was ready to admit that I was a slave. I was ready to accept the duties that came along with it for the sake of survival. I had already accepted that notion. I wasn't treated as horribly as I expected; if I disregarded the occasional burst of violence Ivar got.

I honestly expected whips and starvation. Something I was dreading until Ivar told me of their moral slave code.

Besides, Ivar didn't carry whips around him.

The clothes that were given to me were in significantly better condition than the clothes Godiva had given me. The dress was long and blue, not entirely shapeless and surprisingly, it fit. A gray cloak and a white pinafore were there too. Along came three different sets of underclothes and a new but primitive bralette. Not like the tattered breast wrap Godiva had given me. There were mitts and little cotton hats too that I was infinitely grateful for. To my utter astonishment, there were also fur-lined boots and woolen socks.

Even I knew that was a luxury. I was surprised that Alof would have gone through the pains to get such clothes for me. But they were better than the tattered leather shoes I was given.

I didn't question the luxury. I washed my underwear and myself with the soap I found in the bags. Soaps that smelled a lot better than the bleaching soap I took from the church.

After I had dried myself, I put on my underwear and my new dress. This dress was flowier than the last and I imagine that it would give me an easier time on the horse. Once I was set and finished, I walked back to where Ivar was still sitting on the long.

Alof was there. To my utter dismay, she was braiding cornrows into Ivar's hair like the same hairstyle I had seen when I first met him. She was quick and efficient.

My braiding capabilities extended to French braids, Dutch braids, and waterfall braids. I couldn't boast of anything worth remembering. Not like those skilled Vikings. I wanted to slink away but Ivar noticed me before I could. I froze and watched him for his next move.

"Yasmeen," he said sharply. "Come here"

My legs struggled to move but eventually, I made it, trying to look anywhere but at the lovely couple.

"Sit," he commanded, pointing at a spot on the grass next to his legs. I gulped and sat down, facing away from him.

"Why do you keep her?" Alof said in Swedish. _As if I couldn't understand that_ , I mentally scoffed. But I schooled my expression and tensed my shoulders.

"That is none of your business," Ivar said sharply in Swedish too, she must have tugged on his hair because I heard a low "Alof," spoken in warning.

"It is my right to have a slave from my victories. I am fully entitled to according to our laws, Ivar said sharply

"She is a burden," Alof countered.

"I will be the judge of that," Ivar said testily, I felt his hand come down and stroke my hair. I almost purred at the pleasure that came from imagining Alof's face at the moment.

"Do not touch that filth in my presence," Alof hissed.

"Or what? What do you have against her? Careful sister, I might think you are jealous," Ivar teased. He still kept stroking my hair. But his teasing held no affection. It was cold and threatening. How could he allow her near him when they are so conflicted?

I shifted, trying to muffle a gasp. She was his sister?! Why did she act so catty the entire time? Gosh, I thought she was a scorned lover. I almost laughed. But that would be unwise, and I knew it was even wiser to be afraid of Alof. Being a sister doesn't change anything.

Besides, apparently, if Alof had incestuous preferences, who was I to judge?

"Look at her" Alof hissed. "She does not braid her hair—"

"You should know better," Ivar said sharply "She is a slave, she does not wear braids."

"It's filthy," Alof said. I found her excuses for disliking me extremely feeble. I didn't take her for someone who disliked on appearance. "That is not hair that is sheep hide."

"It's not" Ivar assured her "I touch it daily, it's the cleanest hair I have ever touched. I imagine she is cleaner than you are— _oh you filthy bitch, do that again and I will take you over my knee_. Your excuses for your hatred barely justify anything. I killed a man for a lot more than that. _I know_ you killed a woman for a lot more than that. What—did her ghost steal your scorned lover without my knowledge?"

"You do not know of what you speak." Alof hissed.

"She is my slave; I make it my business to understand. Now explain,"

"She is a distraction, she is not even Saxon. I thirst for revenge. She will only hinder us—do not tell me that is not excuse enough. To me it is. She is dumb, with the amount of questions she asks you—barely any of them are worth mentioning. I do not know what you feel for her but I urge you to stop it now—"

"Who said she was distracting me? Her questions are not stupid. She is a stranger to our ways; I would be disappointed if she didn't ask," Ivar cut her off.

"This just shows her inability to be a slave. A slave doesn't question—" Alof began.

"Do not think to school me in how to be a master to my slave. I do not find her questions taxing, besides, I can answer her questions while moving along," Ivar said. So far, his argument is valid. I mentally cheered for him.

It is a small relief that he didn't think my questions were dumb. I could ask more questions now.

"You stalled the entire morning for her," Alof hissed.

"No I didn't. The people needed time to get their hides in order. They needed time to wash and to recover. The village we raided was better prepared than we expected. You should be on your knees and sucking Odin's cock in gratitude for sparing your life with the way you fought that day— _I am warning you Alof. I am being lenient,_ " Ivar growled and I heard a sharp slap and a muffled, feminine grunt.

"Do not touch me again! Do not speak so crudely to me!" Alof nearly shrieked.

"Then do not behave so crassly," Ivar shot back "I am not asking you to like her. I am asking you to let her be. Do not imagine that I do not know of your little chat with her. You have no business telling her what to do. She is not yours."

"Besides, it is _Laugardagr_ , it is a resting day. We have forever. If the king dies of disease, then the Gods prevented a bloody war. We will just set fire to his successors. That way we ensure that his filth doesn't pass on," Ivar continued.

"Wha—how can you say that?!" Alof shrilled "We came here for revenge. I will kill the king _and_ set fire to his ancestors. All for our father—"

"A father who shamed our name and abandoned us; I have no love for him, but our enemies and our people alike must not think us weak. The Saxons have already broken their sworn oaths where we upheld ours, that is more cause for war than the avenging of our father. What makes you think a mere slave hinders me?" Ivar shot at her "What makes you think my desire for bloodshed is not greater than yours? _Laugardagr_ is a resting day, it is Bath Day. I will honour our ways. I will not forget them in thirst for revenge. That won't give us any satisfaction; that will only lead us astray. Respect that and keep what I told you in mind—are you finished? Good. Run along now."

"You still have to braid my hair," Alof growled. I can imagine a petulant pout on her face.

"Get Erik to do it, he does it better than I," Ivar snapped. "You tried my patience enough for today. Leave before I really do something I might regret."

I felt her walk past me, her knee sharply hitting my back. I jilted forward. Ugh, she has bony knees.

"Alof" Ivar warned. Alof ignored him, Ivar sighed as we both watched her walk away.

"What is it with women thinking they can disobey me?" Ivar hissed in English, the hand on my hair tightening. I whimpered, straightening my back.

"We are not going anywhere today," Ivar said with finality. I wished Alof was not so pig headed. I have to bear the brunt of her fire.

"I will tie you to the tree. I will give you some sewing to do and perhaps other chores. You will not stand idle in this camp. You will contribute," Ivar said, dragging me up to my feet as dragged me to a tree near the horses. He tied sat me down and tied me to the tree and walked away.

A moment later, another man, Erik, I recognized him, came with a large basket and three ropes dragging along the children and old man by their wrists.

"Here," Erik sneered at me, dropping the basket on my knees.

"Ai!" I yelped lurching forward. He then tied both children to the thick trunk of the tree on either side of me.

"Finish this," he said to me and turned to the old man who was tied to the tree across me.

"Do not speak, I will know," Erik sneered.

No one dared speak when he walked away.

"What's your name?" it was the little girl.

I looked around, to check that no one was around, I resumed my needlework.

"My name is Yasmeen."

"That is a weird name, I never heard it before."

"Well, I am not from here," I shrugged, not particularly offended. I was used to children. My nieces were brutal with their questions.

"Where are you from then?"

"A land far away—what is your name?" I didn't want to get into a discussion about lands with a five-year-old who would not understand.

"My name is Alys. That is my brother, Edmund."

I turned to the old man; "What is your name?"

The man wearily looked around and I waited until the coast is clear, pretending to be interested in my sewing.

"I am Benedict Lief," the old man said.

"I am sorry they treated you that way," I said, looking up. The man was weary looking, his aging features inspiring pity inside me. "I tried to tell them to be gentle"

The old man gave me a kindly smile; "I thank you for that. But these are savages; I do not expect any less from them"

I didn't say anything; I only nodded and got back to my work. The children were silent.

Erik never knew.

By the time I was done the basket, it was midday, Alys had offered to help but I couldn't let her. If she messed up, it would be on me. I can tell she was a little relieved to not be subject to any sort of work, but was too polite to not offer.

Her brother was forever silent. He was shy it seemed, either that or he was traumatised. I didn't doubt it was the latter of them two.

Midday came quick and Erik came back, another basket in his hands.

"Are you done this one?" He asked. I nodded, I didn't like him. He wanted to kill me, and then he wanted to rape me. What was there to like?

He took the complete basket from my hand and dumped the other one on my knees again, another reason to not like him.

Sunset came extremely early today. I could barely see what I was sewing, but thankfully, I was on the last stitch of the day. I was surprised how good I was at this. Maybe, just maybe, (hopefully), getting transported through time gave me some sort of skill set.

But I knew that was a foolish hope. Perhaps my sense of self-preservation kicked in and gave me magical talent.

Haha, I am getting funnier by the minute.

By the time it was nightfall; Erik had taken the second basket and departed. No one had eaten breakfast and I was hungry. No—I was starving. It seemed the other captives were starving too because they were looking at the bonfire longingly. I spied Ivar coming towards us.

He stopped straight in front of me. Then he squatted and grabbed my chin, turning my head to the side. He dabbed something on my ear injury. It was boiling salt water. I could feel it in the sting.

"Have any of you eaten today?" Ivar whispered in my ear.

I shook my head.

" _Fuck_ " he cursed in Norwegian and stood up so fast, it made _me_ dizzy. "Erik," he grouched. This man never yells. But his summon carried out across the camp.

"What?" Erik snapped, jogging over.

"I understand that you did not feed my slaves. But your slaves are your responsibility. If they die on you, it will be on you," Ivar hissed in Swedish, punching Erik so hard, he stumbled back. I was stunned by his act of violence. It seemed the children were shocked too because Alys burst into tears.

"I will not have our name further soiled by your incompetency. If you are not up to the responsibility, I am by-the-law obliged to take your slaves away from you, as your current chieftain and superior. That will be even more shameful than if they die," Ivar said, ignoring me as I tried to shush Alys.

It seems that Ivar took the laws more seriously. I was glad he did, at least he had a moral code to go by.

"Why do you care, they are mine to do with as I please," Erik hissed. Ivar punched him again. I could see blood spilling from his nose.

"You foolish little whelp," Ivar hissed "You and your sister try my patience with your insolence. You have not fed your slaves. They are children and they are starving. It doesn't matter if they are slaves anymore, if the children die under your watch the punishment, by-the-law, will be most severe—" Ivar growled at his brother, staring him down.

I could practically see his eyes glowing.

"You can't do that!" Erik snarled "You need all the men—" Ivar cut him off.

"You spoiled fool, are you still stuck at your mother's teat?! Yes I need all the men, but I need men who I can trust and who are able to obey not only my laws; but the laws of our ancestors and Gods. Or have you forgotten your heritage in your desire for blood? Our name will not bear further shame because of your thoughtless actions, Erik." Ivar hissed.

Erik wisely remained silent.

"I will address this issue to my people. Perhaps they will heed this advice better than those who should know better. You will give all your food rations for the night to your slaves as punishment. Do not make me punish you again. Accept your punishment with dignity brother and learn from it. It gives me no joy in giving it," Ivar said when Erik opened his mouth to protest.

Erik's face turned an unnatural shade of red, even in the fire light. He stormed away.

Erik marched over to the bonfire calling in everyone. I couldn't hear what he is saying, but everyone was dead silent as they looked to their leader. I could only hear his strong voice drifting through the wind, but not the words.

I was silent too; his eyes were glowing unnaturally in the firelight, the shadows sculpted over his facial bones. Flurries fell over them and it created an even more captivating scene.

I heard a lot of murmurs of agreement first. Then there was a long pause as Ivar spoke again, the agreement rose louder. Another pause and everyone was cheering for their leader. I didn't hear what he was saying; I had an idea of what he was talking about. I was already charmed by his leadership; he gave definition to that word.

Even if he was an asshole, I—no one could deny it; he was a born leader.


	5. Chapter 5: Kiss and Tell

Four weeks passed and we marched on in a group. I was still always roped to Ivar, who didn't seem keen on letting me in the wagon with Benedict, Alys and Edmund. He was purposefully isolating all of us. An old man had no business talking with children, and I didn't have anyone who was willing to talk to a slave other than Ivar, who was still a jerk.

So far, they only raided three villages in four weeks. Our provisions were completely stocked and there were still no new captives. I never attended any of the raids and I am glad I did not.

Three days of the week they sacrificed animals to their Gods. I could see Benedict Leif shuddering and I heard him praying to God under his breath. A day we rested in where we bathed got ourselves in order. Two days of the week was story telling time; they spoke of their Gods and told tales of them. I understood the stories and when I worked during the Resting day, I told the children of their stories.

Benedict always disapproved; "Do not soil their ears with such heinous beliefs girl."

"What is there to speak about? They are just stories, I don't believe in them. But they are children, they need entertainment."

He usually grumbled away after that.

Ivar, so far, didn't do anything beyond his rough treatment of me; pushing me around, yanking me, grabbing my hair, and just being a real sexist jerk. My butt was a frequent object to the attention of his hands. But he only ever groped me when I asked questions. I learned to try and ignore it, and not shudder in disgust when he did it.

My curiosity would not be sated. I know I was lucky, I heard stories around camp that slaves were often whipped by their masters for asking questions. Even about trivial things. I could only pray that Ivar would stick to his indulgence to my questions.

I didn't know an ounce of knowledge of this world. It was proven on that one day.

I kid you not, on a bath day; I saw a man and a woman coupling, in broad daylight. With everyone else either ignoring them or cheering them on.

 _Cheering them on_!

This was like watching real-life porn. How quaint.

When I looked to Ivar to see his reaction, he was only laughing at them; "Come on, Volstagg, I know you can do better than that! Show Sigrid how it is done!" he called, urging the man to thrust harder into the woman, who was unashamedly screaming with pleasure. He didn't seem remotely fazed by such a sight.

"They are Barbarians—hedonists-nymphomaniacs!" Benedict cried, flustered and looking like he will go into cardiac arrest any moment. He covered the eyes of the two, innocent children, who hopefully did not see what was happening.

"What is happening?" Alys asked curiously.

"Nothing, little one," Benedict said sharply, turning away from the scene and dragging the two children along with him. "These people will be going to hell is all."

I almost laughed. These people didn't believe that pursuing bodily pleasure will land them in the Inferno. They were hedonists to the boot. They believed the pursuit of bodily pleasure and dying in war will win them Valhalla; their version of heaven.

I had gotten up to stretch my legs and follow Benedict and the children but a hand gripping my wrist stopped me.

"Where are you going?" Ivar purred, yanking me back by my shoulder. I resisted the urge to push him away.

"I am going to bathe," I lied. I felt Ivar thrust his hips against me from behind. I squeaked indignantly. He is disgusting.

"Don't lie," said Ivar quietly, dangerously, "it is unbecoming, you already bathed."

"I don't want to watch this," I finally admitted.

"Why?" Ivar scoffed, "There is no shame in pleasure. You Christians believe in the strangest things, they teach you that pleasure is a sin."

"They don't teach that," I defended dryly, acutely aware of how untrue this was, at least, pertaining to this time-period, "They teach that pleasure in chastity is not a sin."

"Who needs chastity when everyone can witness what is natural between man and woman?" Ivar laughed, thrusting his hips against my butt again. I could feel the warmth of his erection.

That idea sounded repulsive, I refrained from saying that, though. But a small part of me, the sick part of me, was secretly parading around it's peacock feathers because someone as good looking as Ivar doesn't just get attracted to girls like me; lumpy and frumpy at best.

"Please—stop that," I hissed, gripping the hand on my wrist, "I wouldn't want everyone to know what is supposed to be my business. You are a private person, right?"

Ivar breathed deeply in my hair, his breath tickling me, and his hand trailed up my waist, cupping the underside of my breast, his thumb stroking the part where my breast met my underarm. While my breasts always felt heavy in his hands, they always felt too small. My breasts have never been small. They were always large since I was eleven.

The man had big hands. He had everything I found attractive in a man, the cheekbones, the jaw, the hands-he is too perfect and that was what made him dangerous. That and his split-personality and an obvious thirst for bloodshed among other things like sexism and strange foot fetishes.

"Am I a private person?" Ivar challenged naughtily, "I find I am in the moment type right now... if you know what I mean," Ivar purred suggestively, his voice husky.

"No," I said firmly. I always said no, and he always left me alone after that. Thank goodness he understood that word. Word was he was raised by a strong mother alone. That is probably why he was kinder to women than he normally would have been otherwise.

He groaned; "I will not take you unwilling. I will not take you in the cold. I will take you in a bed and I will fuck you so hard, you will be limping like you rode a horse for days," Ivar promised. It felt like he was saying it more to himself than to me, like a litany to keep him from actually going back on his word. Ivar moved my hair from my neck and over my shoulders, kissing the line of my collarbones.

He never did that before.

His breath tickled me and I squeezed my jaw over my neck.

"That is ticklish," I grouched; trying to not seem affected, really, this felt rather tingly.

"What is?" Ivar teased, he sucked on my neck and I squeaked, "This?" Ivar rolls his hips again.

"Yes this, please stop," I snapped, angling myself away from him and yanking my arm back.

"Fine," Ivar said, rather coldly, "Go with the rest of the slaves and do not think of escaping, I will know."

It seems like it will be a while before I could ask any questions.

"Go comb your hair," Ivar ordered, "Your hair is filthy. Don't ruin the comb, or I will ruin your fingers," he threatened. I know by now that most of his threats towards me were never empty, but something told me this was particularly empty.

I nodded and quickly walked away when he smacked my butt with an indignant 'ow'.

When I reached his ill-tempered horse; I went to the side and went through his satchel. Ivar had a lot of bodily cleaning supplies there, including tweezers, ear scoops, and a looking glass. Bless up, there were even scissors. His horse, Asfaloth, tried to nip my fingers, hideous beast.

He was exactly like his master.

In four weeks my hair had grown unreasonably long. It grew faster than it ever had before. Already I was spying too many split ends. I took the tweezers and the looking glass, going and sitting down on the log Ivar carried everywhere with him. Tweezing my eyebrows and upper-lip-peach-fuzz were no issues. But it made my eyes water.

I grabbed the comb and ran it through my damp hair, brushing out the tangles. I then threw my hair forward and began cutting my hair as evenly as I could manage without taking off too much length. I knew that Vikings liked long hair.

"What are you doing?" A dangerously low voice hissed. Ivar.

I looked up with confusion.

"I was only trimming my hair," I hastily explained when I looked at his murderous expression.

"Why?" he asked, his voice chilling.

"I trim it because it is unhealthy and dead at the ends. Trimming my hair keeps it healthy," I patiently explained, watching as realization dawned on his face, but then it switched back to cold.

"I know that," I know he did, everyone in camp did that, "You should have taken my permission," he snapped, yanking the scissors from me and grabbing my hair, yanking it back.

"Ai!" I whimpered "You gave me permiss-"

"I gave you permission to comb your hair, not cut it," Ivar corrected. "Sit still before I run you bald."

I was all too glad to comply. I heard the snips of hair and several times, I felt him yank my hair down. I felt the terrible urge to sit his butt down and lecture him about how Abraham Lincoln would have some thing to say about Ivar's ideas on ownership.

"Good then?" he asked, throwing my hair forward. I split my hair, each side reaching down evenly below my breasts. The curls were already drying.

"Yes, that is very good, thank you,"

"Don't let me catch you doing that without my permission again. Go throw the hair in the fire," he commanded.

"Why do they call you Ivar the Boneless?" I asked, stupidly and wrongly using the wrong moment. He was still cheesed at me. I bent to pick up my fallen locks, inspecting them briefly.

I felt him pause from behind.

"I was crippled when I was young," Ivar said casually, "I was named boneless because of that. Our mage told me I only needed to learn how to walk in words far harsher than what I tell you now. The name stuck with me. But I give it a new meaning now. I only wear the braces to give my legs shape. They have been deformed for a while now, " Ivar said, running a hand through my hair, coming to stand in front of me. I looked down at his legs, they didn't seem deformed to me. If anything, they looked powerful and straight.

"Did they hurt?" I asked curiously.

"At first," Ivar shrugged, "They are a mild annoyance now. But Floki insists that I keep them on for another year."

"Who is Floki?" I asked.

"You don't know him, he is our friend. He is not here yet," Ivar dismissed.

"Did he help you walk?" I ask.

"Yes. He made the leg braces for me," Ivar said.

He squatted down.

"Perhaps a kiss of gratitude would be in order, don't you think? I treat you better than you deserve and you know it," Ivar said softly, studying my face.

I knew it alright. There is not a day passed when I heard the men teasing Ivar for his softness towards me. Thankfully, it was in good spirit and Ivar took it in good stride. I took a deep breath in for courage and leaned forward, puckering my lips like a duck and pressing my lips to his.

Ivar pulled away, laughing while he is at it.

"What?" I asked, indignantly.

"You have not kissed before have you?" Ivar teased.

"So what if I have not?" I asked haughtily, Ivar gave me a soft smile that disarmed me. He never smiled that way at anyone.

"I want a proper kiss; you kiss like a woodpecker," He said, inching towards me and grabbing the back of my neck, bringing me closer to him.

 _Screw you_ , I thought murderously, smarting at the woodpecker comment.

All thoughts fled me when he pressed his lips to mine with a significant change in experience.

"Open your mouth," he murmured against my lips.

"What?" I asked scandalized.

"Do it, you idiot."

I complied and I am not sure what happened next, but there was a lot of tongues involved and it felt more pleasant than I expected.

"That was nice," I said, my voice husky. When I realized what I said, I almost smacked myself silly. That was the dumbest comment I ever made, and that is saying something.

Ivar chuckled, bringing me in for another kiss.

"I would give it a little more than ' _nice_ ' don't you think?" Ivar asked once he pulled away.

"Maybe," I teased with a shy smile. Ivar was in a pretty indulgent mood right now so he let me get away with it; normally it would have been a smack to my butt.

"Maybe?" Ivar said, with mock offense, his voice was husky.

"I would give it a _wonderful_ then," I said, deciding to stop my teasing before Ivar lost his good mood. It felt good to have a bit of power, holding back compliments to his ego, if only for a moment.

"Better," Ivar approved, giving me a quick peck on my lips. "Finish washing the cutlery," Ivar ordered, grabbing my fallen hair from me.

The change in his mood was so quick that my smile fell, I couldn't help it. Couldn't he be like this for a little while more? I liked him better that way, I didn't have to worry about threats or sore bums or aching scalps.

He must have noticed my change in demeanor because his eyes softened and he bent down, kissing my forehead, "I will be back."

A week ago, I would have scoffed at that and prayed he never came back. Lately, however, he had been kinder to me, and I began appreciating his indulgence for me at the expense of his reputation. That and he was a good conversation partner, even though he mainly answered my questions.

I know it still isn't right. But I was treated as good as can be afforded. He took care of me. I worried about him during his raids. I would still miss him. He was the only person I actually knew in this camp, that is not counting Benedict and the children, whom I barely speak to.

I washed the cutlery over a bucket of water as he ordered me too. I was used to such chores now, especially in the cold, but that didn't make it any more pleasant. It gave me blains over my fingertips and knuckles that were more ugly than painful. I didn't mind them because everyone else did them, the non-slaves. Luxury couldn't be afforded in an environment like this.

It was the evening before I saw him again.

He had come back, carrying a stag over his shoulders that Erik helped carry with him. His group had hunted seven stags in total. All of them would require skinning. Benedict would help skin and Alys and Edmund would help set the strips to dry out into jerky. I would cut and season with a few other maids and then we would help cook it.

There were around a hundred and fifty people under Ivar's command. The responsibility was often split between him, Erik, Alof, and perhaps a higher ranking brother-in-arms. However, the final authority always went back to Ivar, who gave the go.

For someone so young, he was wise beyond his years. He had particularly high intellect, and his perceptiveness was sharp. Yet he still kept himself a student to the world. He was unafraid of learning from his mistakes and there was always something new to learn.

But he was cruel too. His cruelty often founded over trivial matters.

I didn't like his cruelty.

 _Venison for dinner tonight it is._

"Why do you hate Christians so much?" I asked Ivar when we were back in the mat together, my chest pressed to his abdomen while his head pressed against his flexed arm. The spoils from their raids were usually church valuables; crosses, Tabernacle instruments, chains, and such instruments. There were even some books, but I was sure they were not all Bibles.

Ivar was silent for a long time and for a moment, and I thought he was asleep until he answered me.

"What makes you think we hate Christians?" Ivar asked. He was genuinely curious.

"Well, you always raid the churches," It was the best answer I could give.

"The churches and monasteries are extremely wealthy but poorly defended. Normally we wouldn't slaughter an entire village but the King killed my father. We kill everyone we do not keep. It cuts the trade and it ruins the economy. It is just revenge, nothing more. But you are right, we bear no love for Christians. They seek to force their God on us and they demean our Gods. They are more dishonorable than I can calmly express," His voice took on a hard edge.

"Do you spare the children?" I ask after a moment of contemplation, hoping to avoid the topic of the _Dishonor_ the Christians have committed against him, he mentioned it to Alof, when they were discussing my worth as a slave.

"The children are protected by our laws. We do not harm them if we can help it. Generally, if there are children, we spare the adults who do not fight."

"Then why did you take Alys and Edmund?" I asked. Ivar pulled back and I could see his blue eyes glowing in the darkness. My stomach lurched with apprehension. I hoped I did not offend him.

"You know them by name now," he mused.

I was silent until I felt his hand nudge my belly.

"Answer me," he ordered softly.

"You did not ask a question," I said, swallowing. I was desperately hoping his good mood lasted.

"I implied it. Answer me."

"Yes, I know them by name," I said, swallowing. "But I don't talk to them much. They don't talk much. Benedict only teaches them their letters when he can," I hurried to explain and I felt him chuckle. I felt the need to defend myself from all fronts.

"I am not angry at you for knowing them, _Yasmeen_. I am not angry. I am merely curious. As for your question, I was willing to spare some, but Erik decided he wanted them," Ivar shrugged.

"Why?" I asked, Erik did not seem like the type to take in children, he seemed more like the type to take the pretty maidens who have already matured.

"I do not know. That is what disturbs me."

"He neglected them," I reminded him and I felt Ivar tense up.

"How do you know?" he asked, his voice eerily soft, I felt his hand coming over to trail my cheek and weave through my hair.

 _Oh no, why couldn't I keep my mouth shut_? I racked my brain for a response but nothing came. The hand in my hair tightened all so suddenly that it was all I could do to not scream. A whimper escaped my lips.

"How?" Ivar hissed.

"It was not hard to understand," I squeaked, "You told me you must keep the slaves healthy. He did not feed them all day. I only thought-and then you told me he was their master-" the fear made me burst into tears.

I hated that he made me feel weak, and I hate the fear that he instilled within me. I always cried easily when there were conflicts in our family and in equally distressing situations such as this.

He pulled me against him tightly, shushing me; "Why do you cry? Crying is for children. You are more perceptive than I thought is all. I had thought..." he trailed off, the hand in my hair now gently stroking my scalp.

"What did you think?" I croaked, curious but trying to give nothing away about what I may know.

"I only thought you understood our languages. But there is a poor chance of that," I felt Ivar shrug. Then I felt his breath against my ear, the injured one, which had long since healed.

"What if I did understand?" I asked, trying to sound innocently curious.

"Nothing, then life would continue as usual. Though I would be rather angry that you kept something like that from me."

 _It is safer to tell him now_ , a little voice in my head said.

 _And face his wrath? Maybe I should wait till the morning._ I thought wearily.

 _Better now, he can't do much then, he is too tired,_ the little voice reasoned.

"I can practically hear you thinking. What is it?" Ivar sighed.

 _Give him a kiss for good fortune_ , a snide little voice mocked in my head, _then tell him. He might have a harder time staying angry at you._

 _That sounds like a plan,_ I thought sarcastically, though admittedly, it wasn't the worst plan I have ever come up with.

I wiggled up to face him completely and with the closest estimation, I pulled my face to his, praying to God my lips find his lips and not his nose or cheek.

My lips landed on something soft. For a second or two of awkward contact, I felt the softness move underneath my lips. Good, I aimed right in the dark.

I felt him grab my face in his hands and deepen the kiss. I threw my leg over him, wiggling over his body, a leg on either side of him, supporting my weight on my forearms on either side of his head so I don't crush him. This was more to trap him than anything.

"Open your mouth," he whispered and I obeyed. Kissing him wasn't unpleasant. Maybe if he really liked it, he would not be so angry...

I was the first to pull away. I had to get focused. I had a mission to accomplish. Once my lips left his, I felt my courage seeping away.

 _No, no, no, no, no._ I mentally begged. _No, I will do this._

I took a deep breath.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this rather intimate kiss?" Ivar teased. The way he teased me was vastly different than the way he teased his sister or brothers-in-arms. I don't know how but he just did. Perhaps he was less cold, or less crass with me.

I swallowed.

"Promise me not to be angry," I whispered, bringing my lips to touch his.

I felt him tense up.

"I will try," he finally said.

"Well, I just-I understand what you say when you talk in Norwegian and Swedish-I, my father taught me," I spilled it all forth in one breath. I waited for him to reply, I listened for his breath.

"You understood everything this entire time, yet you said nothing?" he mused. "It seems I underestimated you at every turn."

 _That doesn't guarantee anything,_ the little voice in my head said uneasily.

"How do I know I can trust you now?" he asked, his hands coming up to trail my sides. "How do I know you are not keeping any more secrets from me? Why did you do it?"

"I didn't know how to tell you. You don't like me and you hurt me a lot. I thought I could use it to my advantage-but..." oh my gosh, I said too much.

 _Stupid fuck up,_ hissed the little voice in my head and I can just imagine it looking up at me and shaking its head in disapproval.

"What were you planning to do?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft. The hands on my sides tightened. I squirmed.

"You promised not to be angry," I reminded him wearily.

"I did not promise anything, Yasmeen. I said I would try. Now answer me before I don't bother to try," Ivar said in his dangerous steel-on-stone voice, and I could practically hear his teeth grating.

"Well, I mean, I didn't know what was going to happen. I don't know anything about here. I was lost, and the fishermen from the town I was in found me. When you took me, I didn't want to stay with you. I wanted to leave. I thought if maybe I listened enough, I would be able to know a thing or two about surviving on my own."

"You were planning to escape," Ivar said softly, breathing against my lips and I shut my eyes tightly. I could practically feel his eyes glowing. Ivar never yelled at me or anyone for that matter. His anger was always soft, which makes it all the more deadly.

I didn't want to use the word 'escape', but that was the main idea.

"Well, wouldn't you too if you were in my place?" I pointed out.

Ivar was silent for a moment before he conceded; "Fair point. But what do you want now?"

I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion, "What do you mean?"

"You said you wanted to escape then, what do you want now, why tell me this information?" Ivar asked, the grip on my waist loosening.

"I don't think I want to leave anymore,"I admitted. That was true, I realized I would then never survive. Ivar was kind to me if I disregarded his occasional bursts of cruelty and violence. He gave me things and I have more now than I could ever have without him in a world like this.

 _Self-preservation, if thou art a human..._

"What made you change your mind?" he asked, pulling me down, the weight on my forearms gave out and I settled comfortably against his chest. He should be able to handle my weight. So far, he didn't seem fussed.

"I don't know," I finally said, I didn't know how to put it in words. "But I don't want to leave," I said with a little more conviction in my voice.

I felt his hands grip my behind. I would never get used to the feel of his hands on me like that. I always jump and now was no different.

"Good, " Ivar said.

"What is your home like?" I asked, "What is it called?"

"It is called Kattegat," Ivar sighed wistfully. "It is beautiful and cold, just how I like it. It is prosperous, it is the envy of many jarls"

"What is a jarl?" I asked curiously.

"A Jarl is someone who rules over the land and it's people. Kattegat is rich with game and animals, and it is the center of trade at Norway... I miss it, I will not deny. All the more reason to get done with this war."

"Do you have other siblings too?" I asked, tracing patterns on the ground beside me, my cheek resting against his chest.

"I only have thirteen siblings. Ten of them are my brothers. Alof is my sister, Erik is my brother."

Another fact, huh.

"Why did the rest not come with you?" I asked, "It was their father too, was it not?"

"Aye, but we will meet at York. We attacked from four different fronts, I imagine we are the first to reach the Anglish shores," Ivar said, I was surprised he divulged such information to me.

"Who is Bjorn then?" I asked. Ivar tensed then relaxed.

"He is our eldest, he is the only one of one mother. He chose to pursue a different quest to Arabia. Agnur, who you will hopefully meet, and Erik are of another mother, who is now dead."

"Erik the one I know?" I asked.

"That Erik," Ivar confirmed. "My father's third wife had three children. She is dead at the hand of his first wife, Lagertha," Ivar spat her name, "She killed my mother, Aslaug-" he sighed, as though he was recollecting himself, "Ubbe is the oldest, then Hvitserk, me, and Sigurd, from Aslaug."

I counted them in my head.

"But that is not all is it?" I asked, "He had three wives, yes?" I confirmed.

"Yes, the rest are bastards. But that does not matter. Ragnar legitimizes all his sons and daughters. Alof is a bastard, he was never married to her mother. He only truly married three women."

"You don't like the bastards?" I asked, unsurprised, but still cringing at the use of this insensitive term. I don't know any other word for it.

He didn't like a lot of people. He was only polite with them if he was forced to tolerate them, perhaps even privy to a joke or two. I don't know what genuine affection on his part looks like. He acts, he never speaks, it can be misleading at times.

"I respect some of them," Ivar relented, "But I do not love them as I do my natural brothers. What about you, do you have any siblings?"

"I have a sister," I said, Ivar seemed surprised.

"Only that?" he asked genuinely surprised, "Why do you parents have so little children? Do they not love each other? I know you Arabs breed like rabbits, Bjorn tells me so."

I smiled at him. Of course, contraception is a foreign concept to them, and perhaps it is a shadier business than Ivar would know about. He couldn't see my amusement in the dark, which was a small blessing.

"No...my parents did not want many children. We were all there was. All the more love to share I suppose," I shrugged, struggling up on my forearms and raising my head to face him. I could feel his warm breath on my face. It was getting colder by the days now.

"What is your sister like then?" Ivar asked, still evidently unimpressed with my parents' decisions.

"She is smart and kind," I immediately said, "She is very beautiful. You would never guess she is my sister. She is already married and has two girls. She would always tell me good things to make me feel better about myself. But she is the closest thing to perfection there is. There is nothing to dislike about her. But I don't think you would like her. You don't seem to enjoy the things that are too good," I slowly formulated my words, describing my sister as best as I can.

"You love her very much then, yes?" Ivar said, after a long moment of contemplation.

"Well, of course," I said, letting out a breathy giggle, resting my chin against his, my neck was aching now.

"You would say she is like you?" he asked curiously. I wanted to laugh. No one was anything like my sister. She was the best of both my parents. She was slender, intelligent, heartbreakingly beautiful, extremely kind. All her good qualities just radiate on her face.

All I got was a bad case of acne in grade seven and a frizzy mane of hair.

"No," I scoffed, "She is what little girls want to be."

"What makes you think that little girls don't want to be like you?" Ivar asked.

"Tha-" I stuttered "That is completely off the point. I don't know. I always wanted to be like her is all."

"You shouldn't," Ivar said, "You are too good, but I do not hate you for it."

What was that supposed to mean? A horrible, awkward silence descended over us. I shifted slightly and I heard Ivar grunt.

"Sorry," I whispered, wiggling off him, he let me go and I settled at his side.

"Thank you," I finally settled on telling him.

"Sleep," he commanded.

I didn't realize how tired I was until I closed my eyes.

He never tied my wrists that night.


	6. Chapter 6: Culture

As the days passed, waking up became a chore rather than an obligation.

Yes, there is a difference.

Obligation, I do it with some amount of willingness. A chore is by force.

I still couldn't get over the fact that Ivar had paid me the strangest compliment while simultaneously making me question my life's decisions.

Only with Ivar do you get this shit.

I had nearly forgotten about Alof. She did not linger near Ivar anymore. She left me alone. I was glad for it.

The next village they had gone to raid was empty. Word must have gotten to them early and they had already fled by the time Ivar's army had reached them. The idiots didn't take their gold with them. Thankfully, there was no need to camp outside. The Vikings have decided to stay the night in the village.

Ivar had gotten back from the raid that day, but he was not as bloody as usual. In fact, everyone was spotless.

"What is it?" I asked as Ivar squatted down and untied me from the tree, doing the same thing to Benedict, Alys, and Edmund.

"They had fled the village. I sent scouts to scour the area. These people had more sense than the last. We reside in their homes for now. Come, I have managed to secure us a bedroom."

My stomach dropped. I hoped he'd forgotten about that. Thankfully, there was no suggestive implication at the moment.

"Will there be anything other than meat?" I asked hopefully. I never thought I would say this, but I am sick of venison, game, and birds. I was craving vegetables and bread.

Ivar regarded me with humor.

"You are sick of meat? I can't seem to get enough of it" he scoffed. "Go to the carriage with the rest of the slaves," he ordered and I obeyed.

Of course, you wouldn't get enough of meat, I bet you like the taste of blood too, I thought a little viscously.

I followed Benedict and the children to the carriage. I wish he would make me sit there more often, it was much more comfortable than riding a horse.

"Why do they do this?" Benedict lamented sorrowfully. I wouldn't blame him, his own people were getting slaughtered.

"Your King killed their leader and dishonored a pact," I explained to him, Benedict shot me a sharp look, as though he only just knew about this. I wouldn't blame him, even Whitby didn't seem up to date with any of the latest news. I imagine half of Wessex wasn't aware of it's King's folly.

"They are getting revenge," I offered lamely and Benedict eyed me with some amount of disgust that I was used to by now. My time with Ivar had made him distrust me.

"It is always the people who have power who make it harder for us simpletons," Benedict finally settled on saying and then fell silent. It would be a long time before I heard from him again. The old man had slipped into a fragile state of depression.

As far as I could see, Ivar did not mistreat the old man, he provided for him and always sent me to him when his health needs tending too. But this patriarchy and nationalism made the old man hallow.

The ride to the village was short, Alys wouldn't stop chatting and occasionally her brother laughed, but he never spoke.

He laughed, that was good.

The men were singing and laughing, the other half of Ivar's army was in the village.

"Are you sure it is not a trick?" I asked Ivar once I was down on my two feet and he wrapped my wrists again, walking me to a small hut, which we were to share with Erik and another female who I was sure was named Herfna.

Ivar had mentioned once that Erik had a lover among the women.

"What do you mean?" Ivar looked down at me. He always looked imposing with his leathers and steel. His height gave a different sort of meaning to intimidation but that is different.

"The ones who escaped might inform the King's army and they might come to us-" Ivar cut me off with a snort of derision.

"If that did not happen then it would be so easy, my thirst for revenge would not be satisfied. I expect the King's army to meet us at one point. A battle will happen. We will win it, but it will not be the war" Ivar told me confidently. I blanched at his show of arrogance.

Ivar was never this cocky (who am I kidding, he is hella cocky) so openly.

"How do you know that they will lose this battle?" I asked unsurely.

Ivar gave me a smile, as though he knew something I didn't. Something I would not understand. It made me fume on the inside.

"I know," he said with finality.

"Is it your mage?" I asked, remembering the words. I didn't believe in superstitious crap, but they did.

Ivar looked at me, mildly surprised "I always underestimate you, little bird," he gave me a toothy smile, showing off his sharp canines. The smile was more wolfish than human.

"Well is it?" I demand.

"So demanding, I wonder what it would be like in the bedroom, would you enjoy it?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows and I looked away, falling silent.

I heard Ivar sigh.

"Yes, it is the mage. I have been given no reason as of yet to completely doubt his words."

"You shouldn't be vulnerable," I chided, wondering why on Earth I was giving him life-saving advice, "You shouldn't measure the words more than their worth. There is always a possibility that the mage is wrong."

"I know," Ivar said, and it was clear he had not thought to consider this. I sighed and rolled my eyes. "But I am always alert. You should know better. Vikings never rest in battle. We try to not overestimate our prowess. Ragnar did that. It was his downfall."

"Ragnar is your father, yes?" I had to make sure.

"He is, and his actions shamed our name. I am trying to rebuild it."

"You should make peace with the villagers," I suggested. "You should not slaughter them so senselessly. Their kings are draining their resources to fund their armies. They hate their kings now, make peace with them. Ask for more horses, or supplies." I suggested "There is no way you will win this alone from the outside. You need help from the inside too."

"What do you know of such matters?" Ivar asked coldly. "What makes you presume to tell me what is best for war?"

I was stunned to silence. My advice didn't sound so unreasonable, at least not to me.

I struggled to form the words; "I-I understand the importance of diplomacy," I had finally managed

Ivar was silent. "Go into the room on the right, do not come out, do not think to escape. Volstagg's hounds stand guard and they will rip you to pieces."

He pinched my butt and I yelped. This was not a playful pinch. This was a stinging pinch, filled with anger. I wasted no time in waddling to the room with all the supplies I was carrying.

The wait in the room almost bored me to death. I am not exaggerating. There was nothing to do. The room was simple, with only a decent sized bed to vouch for comfort. I had stroked the fire for a while and then the room became too hot. I had taken off my cloak, but then I was chilled and put it back on. I managed to find the energy to get some water and clean myself.

I almost wore a hole in the ground with all the mindless pacing I did.

How could I presume to think he will take my advice? I forgot that I now lived in a world of men, where I was lower than dirt with my status as a slave. But Ivar did not treat me like dirt (most of the time when he was agreeable), he listened to me. I just hoped he would consider what I have said if he calmed down.

Although, I was sure Vikings treated their women better than the Saxons did.

I sighed and took off my dress, deciding a bit of bodily grooming would not go amiss.

I was strangely hairless. I had waxed back in 2016 Norway, but one would think after six weeks of wandering in the wilderness, there would be at least a semblance of a forest in my arms and legs, but no. There was nothing. Sure I was still hairy _down there_ , but every woman was, I still had my eyebrows and some peach fuzz all over, but no... maybe I will stop getting my period too.

Fingers crossed.

Either that or I am imagining things. I hope I am not dreaming.

My feet were covered in blisters, though. How come, don't ask me, I didn't think I did enough strenuous activity for my feet to be blistered, besides horse riding. But my hands were worn with hard work and blains.

I was still fat, but as expected, after living for so long in the wilderness with nothing but protein to survive on and horseback riding as a daily alternative to walking, I had shed a few layers. Nothing really significant. But I lost a lot of my cellulite.

This is starting to look good by the second. Oh, maybe God sent me here to experience the luxury of not waxing.

I could live with that.

I slipped my Khaleegy dress on, which was now wrinkled from all the time spent in my makeshift sack.

I slipped it on over my new small clothes and looked through the trunk.

The people who lived in this cottage were wealthier than I expected. There were silken small cloths that didn't fit me but would fit any fortunate woman around in camp. There were necklaces and fancy dresses. Sadly, none fit me. But I shouldn't even be thinking about dressing extravagantly. I was a slave. Anything I wore was given to me or I already had it. Alof made sure to get it through my head and besides, there was nothing to give.

I slipped into the bed. The boredom made me tired. I was too tired to even think about food.

But just as my head rested against the pillow, the door opened, I sat up. Ivar stood at the doorway, the firelight making his eyes glow. It was dark outside. How long have I been confined in this room?

Too long.

"What are you wearing?" he asked, more with curiosity than offense.

"It is mine," I said defensively "The dress the fishermen found me in."

Ivar nodded in understanding.

"Clearly you were of high social standing if the fabric is any indication," he nodded his head. He didn't have to touch the dress to know it was fine. It looked fine.

"We were nothing too important, we just liked our clothes," I shrugged. That was true. Arabs, in general, liked their clothes. It was a competition, especially between mothers, over outdoing their daughters.

Ivar seemed unconvinced but dropped the subject. He then began to shrug out of his boots.

"Come help me undress," Ivar commanded.

"I thought you did that on your own," I was confused. He never requested it of me before.

"No, not all of it, some of it. Erik usually helps me with it. He is not here. You are, though," Ivar said. I got out of the bed and walked over to him. I helped undo the straps of his armor.

"You prefer leather than steel?" I asked. He was the only Viking I knew who preferred leather over steel.

"It is lighter. Easier to move in. I have my steel armor, but that is for battle and war" Ivar explained, shrugging out of the smelly leather.

"Oh," I squeaked and Ivar's face scrunched up. The stench of his bodily odor was strong enough to make me want to gag, but out of fear of his ire, I kept my reactions to myself.

"I had better bathe haven't I?" he said, a little humorously, I nodded apologetically. He was in a significantly better mood than this morning.

"I filled you a bath tub" I offered. "The warm water is just heating up," I gestured to the fire. Ivar nodded graciously.

"Did you bathe?" he asked.

"I did," I nodded "I had nothing to do. Where were you all this time? Why did you give me nothing to do? People will think I am useless-" I began, fuming.

"No one cares about you," Ivar snapped "They only know you because you are my slave is all. The old man did nothing either. Neither did the children and many others did nothing too. What is there to do? Mending clothes? There has been no battle. Cooking? There is already leftover food, and our cooks kicked everyone out of the kitchen."

I stared at him in open-mouthed shock, his words weren't harsh, but his tone was. I made to move away from him but his hand flew up and grabbed my arm.

Ivar's shoulder's sagged wearily.

"I should not have spoken to you so. I thank you for the bath. I was meeting with my brothers in arms today. Your advice has given me something to think about. I should not have treated you so callously for it," Ivar said haltingly, his voice husky with weariness. He lifted his hand to my cheek and pulled me up for a kiss by my waist. I scrunched my nose.

I pulled away before he could kiss me.

"No, you will not touch me until you are clean," I sniffed. If he can kick me out of the sleeping mat for not washing, I could deny him what he wants for the same reason. The little bouts of power I get...Ivar, thankfully, didn't seem to mind that. He took it in good stride.

My anger cooled considerably. He didn't know how to say 'sorry' but he knew how to admit he is wrong. That was enough for me, I did not expect any more than that.

"Come, the water should be boiled by now, I think I have soap for you," I said, walking over to the boiling water and lifting it with a piece of cloth.

Ivar took his time bathing. The feast was in an hour, as one of the soldiers had informed me while Ivar was bathing. I had informed Ivar and only got a grunt from him to indicate he heard me.

While he bathed, I had taken his clothes and washed them thoroughly under his expressed command. As much as I hated to touch those filthy clothes, even I had to admit, they needed the scrub.

"What is Egypt like?" Ivar had asked me from the tub, watching me as I scrubbed his clothing in the basin.

"Oh, it is extremely hot. There are many exotic animals and sights to see," I began, my mind transporting itself back to the last time I was in Egypt.

"My grandparents have a farm there, they have mango trees, fig trees and they grow pineapples there-"

"What are they?" Ivar asked curiously.

I looked at him and smiled dreamily. "They are the sweetest fruits you will ever taste, they are juicy and when I am there, I only ever eat them. You wouldn't know them, they only grow in hot places," I added when I spied his struggle to imagine such heavenliness. I had to force myself to stop and not spill everything to him. I just couldn't help it.

"When there is a festival or an event, the celebration lasts for days and for nights. They play songs, and they bring in dancers. They will get drunk but still enjoy the festivities," I continued on.

"Dancers?" Ivar asked, frowning. I looked at him "People who dance?"

"Yes, they dance for other people's entertainment. They usually dance the belly dance, among the other dances. This is the most popular," I said.

Ivar frowned.

"What is it?" he asked. I shifted to turn and face him.

"Well, it is a dance for women. You mainly have to keep your feet from moving and move your hips and belly. You would usually move your arms in watery motions to give an image of elegance."

"Do you know how to dance it?" Ivar asked, looking rather passive.

"I can dance it," I admitted, "though not as well as an actual dancer or my sister. My sister and mother taught me."

"Will you show me?" Ivar asked, his eyes heatedly fixated on me. I shifted with discomfort.

"I really am not the best at it-" I began but Ivar cut me off.

"I do not care, show me what you can do. Do not be afraid of judgment, I have nothing to judge on," Ivar shrugged, as though that was supposed to assure me.

Strangely, it made me feel just a little better. Belly dancing was hard and competitive when it can be. I had standards to keep up with.

I wasn't scared of being judged. This was an extremely provocative dance, ones you usually danced with a bra and a sheer skirt.

"This is a command Yasmeen," Ivar said, raising his eyebrows at me with a challenge. I gulped.

I slowly got up. I grabbed a girdle off the floor and wrapped it around my waist, to emphasize the figure that was required for the dance.

I swear my mind went blank right then and there. But I forced myself to remember. With my feet slightly apart, I bent my knees slightly and raised my arms.

I started remembering the dance to the steps. My hips moved with the beat I imagined. I turned away from Ivar when I felt him staring at me. I couldn't bear to look at him like this.

"Is this what you wear when you dance your belly dance?" Ivar asked, his voice strained.

I didn't turn around, but I laughed. "No, definitely not. Women wear the most revealing of clothes to show off their arms, belly, and legs." I scoffed at his ignorance.

"I quite like this dance," Ivar said, his voice sounding heavy.

"A lot of men like it," I said off-handedly.

"I can see why" Ivar snorted.

"No, the women who dance it and my sister, they have the body for it. They are slender, and that is exactly what looks best on this dance." I dodged his indirect compliment, still continuing with the dance.

I heard water splash in the tub and I knew he was walking towards me.

I felt something wet circle my waist. His arms. "Don't stop," he breathed when I paused.

I hesitantly continued, feeling his hands slide to my hips. I felt his breath against my hair.

"If the most beautiful dancer danced before me, I would still find you desirable like this," he said seriously.

My face felt too hot.

"Tonight" he promised. He gently tugged my head back my hair and kissed me on my lips.

I would say ' _no_ ' then, I finally decided when his arms left my waist. He always listens to that particular command.


End file.
